When I was small
My mother had an Indian shawl,
Spun from the friendliest kind of goat
And dyed a comfortable red.
And when I had a pain in my throat
I used to take the shawl to bed.
So soft it was
That through her wedding-ring ’twould pass;
So warm, it nursed all care aside;
So wide, a covey of babes might be
Happed up in it--soft, warm and wide
As sleep, that shawl was lent to me.