SONG OF THE LOWER CLASSES

by Ernest Jones

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,
'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 low,
to the hell of the deep-sunk mines,
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,
but not too low to pay.

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
through the heart of the proudest king.

We're low - we're low - but 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.