O little lambs! the month is cold,
The sky is very gray;
You shiver in the misty grass
And bleat at all the winds that pass;
Wait! when I'm big — some day —
I'll build a roof to every fold.
But now that I am small, I'll pray
At mother's knee for you;
Perhaps the angels with their wings
Will come and warm you, little things;
I'm sure that, if God knew,
He'd let the lambs be born in May.