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And still the snowy Himalayas rise in ancient majesty before our eyes
beyond the plain, above the pines.
While through the ever neverchanging land, as silently as any native band
that moves at night, the Ganghi shines.

Then I hear the song that only India can sing;
softer than the plumage on a black raven's wing.
High upon a minaret I stand and gaze across the desert sand
upon an old enchanted land

Then the Maharaja's caravan unfolding like a painted band.
How small the little race of man.
See them all parade across the ages.
Armies, kings and slaves from history's pages
laid on one of nature's vastest stages.

The servants, thieves and beggers line the streets
while holy men in shadow's calm retreats
pray through the night and watch the skies.
A lonely plane flies off to meet the dawn
while down below the busy life goes on
and women crowd the old bazaar.

All are in the song that only India can sing
India, the Jewel of the East

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