'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 seized his hair, He led him by his little coat, And all admired his 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 stripped 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?
