Now this is not a dismal song, like some I-ve sung of late,
When I-ve been brooding all day long about my muddled fate;
For though I-ve had a rocky time I-ll never quite forget,
And though I never was so deep in trouble and in debt,
And though I never was so poor nor in a fix so tight-
The tracks that run by India are shining in my sight.
The roads that run by India, and all the ports of call-
I-m going back to London first to raise the wherewithal.
I-ll call at Suez and Port Said as I am going past
(I was too worried to take notes when I was that way last),
At Naples and at Genoa, and, if I get the chance,
Who knows but I might run across the pleasant land of France.

The track that runs by India goes up the hot Red Sea-
The other side of Africa is far too dull for me.
(I fear that I have missed a chance I-ll never get again
To see the land of chivalry and bide awhile in Spain.)
I-ll graft a year in London, and if fortune smiles on me
I-ll take the track to India by France and Italy.

-Tis sweet to court some foreign girl with eyes of lustrous glow,
Who does not know my language and whose language I don-t know;
To loll on gently-rolling decks beneath the softening skies,
While she sits knitting opposite, and make love with our eyes-
The glance that says far more than words, the old half-mystic smile-
The track that runs by India will wait for me awhile.

The tracks that run by India to China and Japan,
The tracks where all the rovers go-the tracks that call a Man!
I-m wearied of the formal lands of parson and of priest,
Of dollars and of fashions, and I-m drifting towards the East;
I-m tired of cant and cackle, and of sordid jobbery-
The mystery of the East hath cast its glamour over me.