The Land of
O little lambs! the month is cold,
The sky is very grey;
You shiver in the misty grass
And bleat in all the wind that pass;
Wait ! when Iím big--some day--
Iíll build a roof to every fold.
But now that I am small Iíll pray
At motherís knee for you;
Perhaps the angels with their wings
Will come and warm you, little things;
Iím sure that, if God knew,
Heíd let the lambs be born in May.
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