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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. |