If the round earth bears a brand of the infernal,
Does the trail of it not taint our native North?
Ay, we love it as in truth we've ever loved it.
Our devotion, poorly paid, is firm and strong;
Have our little pitied miseries not proved it,
And our weary tale of wrong?
"Little Father," we are hungering now, neglected,
While the foreigner shouts praises in our ports;
We are honoured, say your scribes, loved, feared, respected,
The proud Frank, we fought for you, your friendship courts.