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     Snake, fever, and famine,
The curse of the Brahmin,
     The sun and the dew,
They burn us, they bite us,
     They waste us and smite us
Our days are but few!
     In strange lands far yonder
To wonder and wander
     We hasten to you.
List then to our sighing,
     While yet we are here:
Nor seeing nor hearing,
     We wait without fearing,
To feel you draw near.
     O dead, to the dying
Come home!


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1879 AD (1)
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