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'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?

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