Next morn, as usual, all the flock
Is counted o’er, and o’er,—
Suspicion is arous’d—the stock
Is minus one! (not more)—
The farmer hurriedly looks ’round,
Unwilling to believe
His little lamb’s not to be found,
Then he begins to grieve:
So ’round and ’round the yard he paced,
Scann’d every thought-of nook;