'Nought loves another as itself,
'Nor venerates another so,
'Nor is it possible to thought
'A greater than itself to know.
'And, Father, how can I love you
'Or any of my brothers more?
'I love you like the little bird
'That picks up crumbs around the door.'
The Priest sat by and heard the child;
In trembling zeal he seiz'd his hair,
He led him by his little coat,
And all admired the priestly care.
And standing on the altar high,
'Lo! what a fiend is here,' said he,
'One who sets reason up for judge
'Of our most holy Mystery.'
The weeping child could not be heard.
The weeping parents wept in vain.
They stripp'd him to his little shirt
And bound him in an iron chain,
And burned him in a holy place
Where many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albion's shore?
