'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?