"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"
In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright,
The singing kettle brightly shone—
Again, again, his well-known tone—
"Clean your doorstep, Marm?"
His brow was sad—his chilly nose,
Like fiery coals, glow'd in the snows,
And, as the kitchen bell he rang,
In accents clear he loudly sang,