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 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 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 thing done on Albion's shore?
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