'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?