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—we’re very, very low,—

And yet from our fingers glide

The silken floss 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,