by Ernest Jones
Chartist leader and poet, 1819-1869; sentenced in 1848 to two years’ imprisonment.
We plow 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, very low
To the hell of the deep sunk mines,
But we gather the proudest gems that glow
Where 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 — 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 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 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.
Robin's Nest 