Once on a time, a shepherd lived
Within a cottage small;
The grey thatched roof was shaded by
An elm-tree dark and tall;
While all around, stretched far away,
A wild and lonesome moor,
Except a little daisied field
Before the trellised door.
Now, it was on a cold March day,
When on the moorland wide
The shepherd found a trembling lamb
By its mother's side;
And so pitiful it bleated,
As with the cold it shook,
He wrapped it up beneath his coat,
And home the poor lamb took.
He placed it by the warm fireside,
And then his children fed
This little lamb, whose mother died,
With milk and sweet brown bread,
Until it ran about the floor,
Or at the door would stand;
And grew so tame, it ate its food
From out the children's hand.
It followed them where'er they went,
Came ever at their call,
And dearly was this pretty lamb
Beloved by them all.
And often on a market-day,
When cotters crossed the moor,
They stopped to praise the snow-white lamb,
Beside the cottage door;
They patted it upon its head,
And stroked it with the hand,
And vowed it was the prettiest lamb
They'd seen in all the land.
Now, this kind shepherd was as ill,
As ill as he could be,
And kept his bed for many a week,
And nothing earned he;
And when he had got well again,
He to his wife did say,
"The doctor wants his money, and
I haven't it to pay.
"What shall we do, what can we do?
The doctor made me well,
There's only one thing can be done,
We must the pet lamb sell;
We've nearly eaten all the bread,
And how can we get more,
Unless you call the butcher in
When he rides by the door?"
"Oh, do not sell my white pet lamb,"
Then little Mary said,
"And every night I'll go up stairs
Without my tea to bed;
Oh! do not sell my sweet pet lamb;
And if you let it live,
The best half of my bread and milk
I will unto it give."
The doctor at that very time
Entered the cottage door,
As, with her arms around her lamb,
She sat upon the floor.
"For if the butcher buys my lamb,
He'll take away its life,
And make its pretty white throat bleed
With his sharp cruel knife;
"And never in the morning light
Again it will me meet,
Nor come again to lick my hand,
Look up upon me and bleat."
"Why do you weep, my pretty girl?"
The doctor then did say.
"Because I love my little lamb,
Which must be sold to-day;
It lies beside my bed at night,
And, oh, it is so still,
It never made a bit of noise
When father was so ill.
"Oh do not let them sell my lamb,
And then I'll go to bed,
And never ask for aught to eat
But a small piece of bread."
"I'll buy the lamb and give it you,"
The kind, good doctor said,
"And with the money that I pay
Your father can buy bread.
"As for the bill, that can remain
Until another year."
He paid the money down, and said,
"The lamb is yours, my dear:
You have a kind and gentle heart,
And God, who made us all,
He loveth well those who are kind
To creatures great and small;
"And while I live, my little girl,
Your lamb shall not be sold,
But play with you upon the moor,
And sleep within the fold."
And so the white pet lamb was saved,
And played upon the moor,
And after little Mary ran
About the cottage-floor.
It fed upon cowslips tall,
And ate the grass so sweet,
And on the little garden-walk
Pattered its pretty feet;
And with its head upon her lap
The little lamb would lay
Asleep beneath the elm-tree's shade,
Upon the summer's day,
While she twined the flowers around its neck,
And called it her, "Sweet May."