| We’re low — we’re low — mere rabble, we know
|
| But, at our plastic power,
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| The mould at the lording’s feet will grow
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| Into palace and church and tower
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| Then prostrate fall — in the rich man’s hall,
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| And cringe at the rich man’s door;
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| We’re not too low to build the wall,
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| But too low to tread the floor.
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| Down, down we go — we’re so very low,
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| To the hell of the deep sunk mines,
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| But we gather the proudest gems that glow,
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| When the crown of a despot shines.
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| And whenever he lacks — upon our backs
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| Fresh loads he designs to lay;
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| We’re far too low to vote the tax,
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| But not too low to pay.
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| We’re low — we’re low — we’re very very low,
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| Yet from our fingers glide
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| The silken flow — and the robes that glow
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| Round the limbs of the sons of pride.
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| And what we get — and what we give —
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| We know, and we know our share;
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| We’re not too low the cloth to weave,
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| But too low the cloth to wear! |