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 Great!_ _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 two--_ _Moths making holes in a cloak--_ _How they must love what they do!_ _Yes,--and we Little Folk too,_ _We are as 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._
HAL O' THE DRAFT