 | The Song of the Lower Classes |  |
THE SONG OF THE LOWER CLASSES.
By ERNEST JONES.
We plough and sew—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.
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.
Chorus:
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
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.
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.
Chorus:
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.
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.
Chorus:
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!
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!
Chorus:
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
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.
And yet when the trumpets ring,
The thrust of a poor man's arm will go
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.
Chorus:
We're not too low to kill the foe,But too low to touch the spoil.
A SONG OF CROMWELL'S TIME.
BY
ERNEST JONES.
A vote in the Laws they make!
A home on the land I till!
Where the hearts of the many break
The cup of the few to fill.
By the right of their laws I pine:
But what are their laws to me?
For I live by right divine,
And that is the right to be free.
A home in my native isle!
A share in the wealth I heap!
Where the rich in their revel smile,
And the poor in their anger weep.
The poor—the poor—the poor in their anger weep.
The rich—the rich—the rich—their revels keep.
A home on the land I till!
Where the hearts of the many break
The cup of the few to fill.
By the right of their laws I pine:
But what are their laws to me?
For I live by right divine,
And that is the right to be free.
A home in my native isle!
A share in the wealth I heap!
Where the rich in their revel smile,
And the poor in their anger weep.
The poor—the poor—the poor in their anger weep.
The rich—the rich—the rich—their revels keep.
The strength that in numbers lies
Each hour is making known:
Pioneers of the truth, arise,
And you shall not be left alone!
We'll scatter their knavish rule,
Like a prisoned storm set free,
Till tyrant and tyrant's tool
Have vanished from sea to sea.
A home in my native isle!
A share in the wealth I heap!
Where the rich in their revel smile,
And the poor in their anger weep.
The poor—the poor—the poor in their anger weep.
The rich—the rich—the rich—their revels keep.
Each hour is making known:
Pioneers of the truth, arise,
And you shall not be left alone!
We'll scatter their knavish rule,
Like a prisoned storm set free,
Till tyrant and tyrant's tool
Have vanished from sea to sea.
A home in my native isle!
A share in the wealth I heap!
Where the rich in their revel smile,
And the poor in their anger weep.
The poor—the poor—the poor in their anger weep.
The rich—the rich—the rich—their revels keep.
At the word of the cruel few
The clouds of the battle frown:
But, long as the many are true,
We'll say: let the storm come down—
And on as the masses sweep,
Our cry shall meet them still:
A share in the wealth we heap.
A home on the land we till.
A home in my native isle,
A vote in the laws we keep,
Then the rich, if they like, may smile,
But the poor shall cease to weep.
The poor—the poor—the poor shall cease to weep
The rich—the rich—the rich—their revels keep
The clouds of the battle frown:
But, long as the many are true,
We'll say: let the storm come down—
And on as the masses sweep,
Our cry shall meet them still:
A share in the wealth we heap.
A home on the land we till.
A home in my native isle,
A vote in the laws we keep,
Then the rich, if they like, may smile,
But the poor shall cease to weep.
The poor—the poor—the poor shall cease to weep
The rich—the rich—the rich—their revels keep
| The Song of the Lower Classes | |