Counting Sheep

Oh fine little sheep why must you bleat? When your manger’s piled high with strands of wheat. Think you of the cock hen pecked by his flock who must awaken at dawn to crow from the rocks. Or the cattle that lo in their pastures of snow Could use your fleece coat when the icy winds blow. And the pigs in their sty should borrow your cry For their mud saddled backs must itch as they dry. But I know why you weep oh wise little sheep For you count off the days ‘til your wool they will reap.