A Pict Song, by Kipling

A Pict Song, by Kipling

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,
As 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 taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!

Mistletoe killing an oak -
Rats gnawing cables in two -
Moths making holds 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!

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 taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!