“A Pict Song
“Rome never looks
Where she treads
Always her heavy
Hooves fallOn our bellies, our hearts
And our heads
Rome never heeds
When we brawlHer sentries pass
By and that is all
And we gather behind them
In hordesAnd plot to reconquer
The Wall
With only our tongues
As our swordsWe are the Little Folk
We
Too little
To love or to hateLeave us alone
And you’ll see
How fast we can Drag down the StateWe are the
Worm in the wood
We are the
Rot at the rootWe are the
Taint in the blood
We are the
Thorn in the footMistletoe
Killing an oak
Rats gnawing cables
In twoMoths making holes
In a cloak
How they must love
What they doYes and we
Little Folk too
We are as busy
As theyWorking our works
Out of view
Watch, and
You’ll see it some dayWe are the Little Folk
We
Too little
To love or to hateLeave us alone
And you’ll see
How fast we can
Drag down the StateWe are the
Worm in the wood
We are the
Rot at the rootWe are the
Taint in the blood
We are the
Thorn in the footNo indeed
We are not strong
But we know
Peoples who areYes, and we’ll guide
them along
To smash and
destroy you in WarWe shall be slaves
just the same
when have we never been slaves
But you—you will die of the shame
And then we shall
Dance on your graves”