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 grain to grow
But too low the bread to eat.
We’re not too low low, &c.

Down, down we go—we’re so very, 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 we’re not too low to pay.
We’re far too low, &c.

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—
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 not too low, &c.

We’re low—we’re low—we’re very, very low,
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.
We’re not too low the cloth to weave—
But too low the cloth to wear.
We’re not too low, &c.

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—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.
We’re not too low, &c.