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.
A NEW HUNTING SONG.
Now those that are low spirited I hope won’t think it wrong,
While I sing to you a verse or two of a new hunting song;
For the hunting season has set in, or else just now begun,
Our heroes all will have their fun with the dog and gun.
Chorus.
And a hunting they will go, will go,
And a hunting they will go, will go!
They’ll use all means, and try all schemes,
For to keep the poor man low.
With one of our brave huntsmen, I’m going to commence,
His name it was bold Bonaparte, he was a man of sense;
He hunted off from Corsica upon a game of Chance,
And hunted until he became the Emperor of France.
The next huntsman was Wellington, he’d the best of luck,
He hunted from lieutenant, till he became a Duke,
His men did fight well for him, and did his honour gain,
He done his best endeavours to have their pensions taken.
As for our hero Nelson, he hunted well for fame,
He was as bold a huntsman as e’er hunted on the main;
And for his warlike valour, he always bore the sway,
Till a cannon ball caused his downfall, all in Trafalgar Bay.
Prince Albert to this country came hunting for a wife,
He got one whom he loved dear as his own life;
Oh yes, a blooming little Queen for to dandle on his knee
With thirty thousand pounds a year paid from this country.
O’Connell he went hunting all through old Ireland’s vale,
And says he’ll go on hunting until he gets repeal.
They swear they’ll have a Parliament in Dublin once more,
And make the trade to flourish all round green Erin’s shore.