Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require

Thee-thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills,
The Imperial Fire!

A PICT SONG

Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall,

On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on that is all,

And we gather behind them in hordes, And plot to reconquer the Wall,

With only our tongues for our swords.

We are the Little Folk - we!

Too little to love or to hate.

Leave us alone and you'll see

How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the germ in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!

Mistletoe killing an oak

Rats gnawing cables in twoMoths making holes in a cloak

How they must love what they do!

Yes and we Little Folk too,

We are busy as they

Working our works out of view —
Watch, and you'll see it some day!

No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along,
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?

Yes, we have always been slaves,

But you - you will die of the shame,
And then we shall dance on your graves!

We are the Little Folk, we, etc.

THE STRANGER

The Stranger within my gate,
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk

I cannot feel his mind.

I see the face and the eyes and the mouth, But not the soul behind.

The men of my own stock
They may do ill or well,

But they tell the lies I am wonted to,

They are used to the lies I tell.

We do not need interpreters

When we go to buy and sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
He may be evil or good,

But I cannot tell what powers control-
What reasons sway his mood;

Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
May repossess his blood.

The men of my own stock,

Bitter bad they may be,

But, at least, they hear the things I hear,

And see the things I see;

And whatever I think of them and their likes They think of the likes of me.

This was my father's belief

And this is also mine:

Let the corn be all one sheaf

And the grapes be all one vine,

Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.