Rich or high, for we make them so
In a miserable lot are we
To the hell of the deep sunk mines
We gather the proudest gems that glow
When the crown of a despot shines
And whenever he laughs upon our backs
Fresh loads he brings to lay
We're far too low to vote the tax
But we're not too low to pay
We're low, we're low, mere rabble we know,
The mold at the Lordling's feet
will grow into palace, church, and town
And prostrate fall in a rich man's hall
And cringe at the rich man's door
When you're not too low to build the wall
But too low to tread the floor
We're in blue, we're low,
Yet from our fingers glide
Around 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 weep,
but too low the cloth to wear
And yet, when the trumpets ring
The thrust of a poor man's arm
will go through the heart of
we're only the rim of a mile
We're not too low to kill the foe,
but too low to touch the score
Rich or high, for we make them so
And a miserable heart, are we
And a miserable heart, are we
In a miserable heart are we, are we
In a miserable heart are we