My little lamb, in early spring,
Was but a timid, weakly thing:
His old sheep-mother did not own him:
He would, no doubt, have soon been dead,
If I had not some pity shown him,
And seen that he was warmed and fed.
I was the only friend he knew,
And fond of him each day I grew;
And, as I stroked his woolly head,
"Wherever you may be,
I know, my little lamb," I said,
"You will remember me."
But, when the fields grew green in May,
They sent my little pet away
To pasture, where the brooks were flowing
Through yellow beds of cowslip flowers,
Where purple violets were growing,
And scented blossoms fell in showers
From off the shading chestnut-trees,
And daisies nodded in the breeze:
And many mates my lambkin found,
As young and gay as he,
And all day long they frisked around
And gambolled full of glee.
But when the robin-redbreasts flew,
And loud and shrill the north-winds blew,
Back from the pastures hard and frozen,
Through winter in the barn to keep,
The little lamb that I had chosen
They brought with all the other sheep;
And, oh! how glad my face to see,
I thought, my pretty pet will be!
But when to meet him I went out,
And tried to coax and call,
He drew away, and turned about,
And would not come at all.
With his white fleece and playful ways,
My lamb now all about me praise;
But dearer far to me the sickly,
Poor, shivering thing he used to be;
When to my call he came so quickly
I thought that he was fond of me!
But if I pet him now, I know
He'll take my gifts, and off he'll go;
For I, to my regret, have found
I can no more depend
On one who will go frisking round,
And quite forget a friend.