My father was a follower of Ernest Jones, the Radical Chartist poet, writer and lecturer, and would sing us Ernest Jones’ “Chartist Hymn”:

“We plow and sow, we're so very low
That we delve in the dirty clay;
Till we bless the plain with the golden grain,
And the vale with the fragrant hay,
Our place we know—we're so very, very low—
Tis down at the landlord’s feet.
We're not too low the grain to grow,
But too low the bread to eat.”

Treasonable sentiments like these just suited him and he would sing this verse with gusto:

“We're low, we're low, we're very, very low,
And yet from our fingers glide
The silken flow 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.”