HINDUSTAN
(Oliver G. Wallace / Harold Weeks, 1918)


Camel trappings jingle, harp strings sweetly tingle,
with a sweet voice mingle, underneath the stars; singing
memories are bringing, temple bells are ringing calling
me a far.

Shades of night are falling, nightingales are calling,
every heart enthralling, underneath the stars;
Sighing, like the night wind dying, soft my heart is
crying for my love afar.

Hindustan, where we stopped to rest our tired caravan,
Hindustan, where the painted peacock spread his fan,
Hindustan, where the purple sunbird flashed across
the sand, Hindustan, where I met her and the world began.