But too low the cloth to wear.

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

Through the heart of the proudest king.

We’re low, we’re low—mere rabble, we know—

We’re only the rank and the file;

We’re not too low to kill the foe,

But too low to share the spoil.

Tom Dunstan: or, the Politician