On the coast of Coromandel, Dance they to the tune of Handel; Chorally, that coral coast Correlates the bone to ghost, Till word and limb and note seem one, Blending, binding act to tone.
From the first green shoots of morn, Cool as northern hunting-horn, Till the nightly tropic wind With its rough-tongued, grating rind
Saraband and rigadoon Dance they through the purring noon, While the lacquered waves expand Golden dragons on the sand — Dragons that must, steaming, die From the hot sun’s agony — When elephants, of royal blood, Plod to bed through lilied mud, Then evening, sweet as any mango, Bids them do a gay fandango, Minuet, jig or gavotte. How they hate the turkey-trot, The nautch-dance and the Highland fling. Just as they will never sing Any music save by Handel On the coast of Coromandel!
Any music save by Handel On the coast of Coromandel!