Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/719

 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, 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

("How Long, O Lord, How Long?")

(See pages 367, 412)

Cross-legg'd on the board we sat, Like spiders spinning, Stitching and sweating, while fat Old Moses, with eyes like a cat, Sat greasily grinning; And here Tom said his say, And prophesied Tyranny's death; And the tallow burned all day,