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 two—­
Moths 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.

‘RIMINI’

(Marching Song of a Roman Legion of the Later Empire)

When I left home for Lalage’s sake
By the Legions’ road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With me and my shield to Rimini—­
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!)
And I’ve tramped Britain, and I’ve tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage—­
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And I’ve lost Britain, and I’ve lost Gaul,
And I’ve lost Rome, and worst of all,
I’ve lost Lalage!

When you go by the Via Aurelia,
As thousands have travelled before,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw Rome any more! 
Oh dear was the sweetheart that kissed him
And dear was the mother that bore,
But his shield was picked up in the heather,
And he never saw Rome any more!