The Picts Song

(Lyrics by lyrics Rudyard Kipling)

Rome never looks where she treads
Always her heavy boots fall
On our bellies, our hearts and our heads.
And Rome never heeds when we squall
Her sentries pass by and that's all.
And we gather behind them in moors
And plot to reconquer the wall
With only our tongue for our swords.

Chorus:
We are the little folk we
Too little to love or to hate
But leave us alone and you'll see
How soon 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 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 you
Watch and you'll see someday

Chorus

No maybe we are not strong
But we know people who are
And gladly we'll guide them along
To smash and destroy you and more.
And then we'll be slaves just the same
But when have we never been slaves?
And you, you will die of the shame
And then we shall dance on your grave.

Chorus