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HE is weak and old, and he feels the cold,
But a nice clean path he keeps, For passengers all, both great and small,
As the mud to each side he sweeps. The people stare, in London Town, At his turban rare, and his face so brown, But the poor old Hindoo does not mind, So long as a coin for him they find. And he nods and smiles, as he sweeps away, As if to the passer-by he 'd say,— "Think of your shining boots and shoes, And a copper to me you can't refuse. For each penny I get I sweep the faster— Ah! thank you,
Thank you,
Kind young master!"
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