The crossing-sweeper sweeps the floor—
That’s what the crossing-sweeper’s for.
Chorus. Then take the road, etc., etc.
I know it doesn’t look much, just written down on paper; but you try singing it and you’ll find you’re carried away.
Of course there ought to be an international verse, but I’m afraid I can’t compete with the one in my model:—
“Look round: the Frenchman loves its blaze,
The sturdy German chants its praise;
In Moscow’s vaults its hymns are sung;
Chicago swells the surging throng.”
“From Russia’s snows to Afric’s sun