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 stripp'd him to his little shirt
And bound him in an iron chain;
And burn'd him in a holy place
Where many had been burn'd before:
The weeping parents wept in vain.
Are such things done on Albion's shore?
IS this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
