A little lamb had Mary, sweet,
With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
Not alone Mary went when she moved her feet
(For a little lamb had Mary, sweet),
And it tagged her ’round with a pensive bleat,
And wherever she went it wanted to go;
A little lamb had Mary, sweet,
With a fleece that shamed the driven snow.
(_As Mr. Browning has it_)
You knew her?—Mary the small,
How of a summer,—or, no, was it fall?
You’d never have thought it, never believed,
But the girl owned a lamb last fall.
Its wool was subtly, silky white,
Color of lucent obliteration of night,
Like the shimmering snow or—our Clothild’s arm!
You’ve seen her arm—her right, I mean—
The other she scalded a-washing, I ween—
How white it is and soft and warm?
Ah, there was soul’s heart-love, deep, true, and tender,
Wherever went Mary, the maiden so slender,
There followed, his all-absorbed passion, inciting,
That passionate lambkin—her soul’s heart delighting—
Ay, every place that Mary sought in,
That lamb was sure to soon be caught in.
(_As Longfellow might have done it_)
Fair the daughter known as Mary,
Fair and full of fun and laughter,
Owned a lamb, a little he-goat,
Owned him all herself and solely.
White the lamb’s wool as the Gotchi—
The great Gotchi, driving snowstorm.
Hither Mary went and thither,
But went with her to all places,
Sure as brook to run to river,
Her pet lambkin following with her.
(_How Andrew Lang sings it_)