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.