A widow, poor and old and lonely,
Whose flock once numbered many a score,
Had now remaining to her only
One little lamb, and nothing more.
And every morning, forced to send it
To scanty pastures far away,
With prayers and tears did she commend it
To the good saint who named the day.
Nor so in vain ; each kindly patron —
George, Agnes, Nicholas, Genevieve —
Still mindful of the helpless matron,
Brought home her lambkin safe at eve.