See the lads of old Erin for liberty crow,
Repeal of the Union and Erin-go-bragh!
Peace and contentment, then none can we blame,
Plenty of labour, and paid for the same;
Some are rolling in riches, and luxury, too,
While millions are starving with nothing to do;
Through the Nation prosperity soon will be seen,
Hurrah for the Charter, and God save the Queen!
Such constables there are in London, now mark,
Tailors and shoemakers, labourers and clerks,
Gas light men, pick pockets, firemen too,
Green grocers, hatters, pork butchers, and Jews:
Lollipop merchants, and masons a lot,
And the covey what hollows “Baked taters all hot.”
They are sworn to protect us, and keep well the peace,
To frighten the Chartists and help the police.
This is the sort of stuff that was disseminated among the people at the time of the agitation for “the Charter,” and, looking at the convulsion of 1848, which shook Europe to its centre, it speaks volumes for the good sense of the lower classes that they were not stirred up to acts of violence by such inflammatory rubbish as the following.
THE SONG OF THE LOWER CLASSES.
By Ernest Jones.
Music by John Lowry. This song can also be sung to the air of “The Monks of Old.”
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 bread to grow,
But too low the bread to eat.[63]
Down, down we go,—we’re so 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.
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 hate,
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!