| |
| WE plough and sow—we’re so very, very low | |
| That we delve in the dirty clay, | |
| Till we bless the plain with the golden grain, | |
| And the vale with the fragrant hay. | |
| Our place we know—we’re so very low, | 5 |
| ’Tis down at the landlord’s feet: | |
| We’re not too low the bread to grow, | |
| But too low the bread to eat. | |
| |
| Down, down we go—we’re so very, very low, | |
| To the hell of the deep-sunk mines, | 10 |
| But we gather the proudest gems that glow | |
| When the crown of a despot shines. | |
| And, whenever he lacks, upon our backs | |
| Fresh loads he deigns to lay: | |
| We’re far too low to vote the tax, | 15 |
| But not too low to pay. | |
| |
| We’re low—we’re low—mere rabble, we know, | |
| But at our plastic power, | |
| The mould at the lordling’s feet will grow | |
| Into palace and church and tower. | 20 |
| Then prostrate fall in the rich man’s hall, | |
| And cringe at the rich man’s door: | |
| We’re not too low to build the wall, | |
| But too low to tread the floor. | |
| |
| We’re low—we’re low—we’re very, very low, | 25 |
| Yet from our fingers glide | |
| The silken flow—and the robes that glow | |
| Round the limbs of the sons of pride. | |
| And what we get—and what we give— | |
| We know, and we know our share: | 30 |
| We’re not too low the cloth to weave, | |
| But too low the cloth to wear! | |
| |
| We’re low—we’re low—we’re very, very low, | |
| And yet when the trumpets ring, | |
| The thrust of a poor man’s arm will go | 35 |
| Thro’ the heart of the proudest king. | |
| We’re low—we’re low—our place we know, | |
| We’re only the rank and file, | |
| We’re not too low to kill the foe, | |
| But too low to touch the spoil. | 40 |
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