Turn the merry mill-stone, Gunga!
  Pour the golden grain in;
Those that twist the Churrak fastest
  The cakes soonest win:
    Good stones, turn!
    The fire begins to burn;
    Gunga, stay not!
    The hearth is nearly hot.
Grind the hard gold to silver;
  Sing quick to the stone;
Feed its mouth with dal and bajri,
  It will feed us anon.

Sing, Gunga! to the mill-stone,
  It helps the wheel hum;
Blithesome hearts and willing elbows
  Make the fine meal come:
    Handsful three
    For you and for me;
    Now it falls white,
    Good stones, bite!
Drive it round and round, my Gunga!
  Sing soft to the stone;
Better corn and churrak-working
  Than idleness and none.