I have always been a wand'rer
|
Over land and sea
|
Yet a moonbeam on the water
|
Casts a spell o'er me
|
A vision fair I see
|
Again I seem to be
|
|
Back home again in Indiana,
|
And it seems that I can see
|
The gleaming candlelight, still burning bright,
|
Through the sycamores for me.
|
The new-mown hay sends all its fragrance
|
Through the fields I used to roam.
|
When I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash,
|
How I long for my Indiana home.
|
|
Fancy paints on mem'ry's canvas
|
Scenes that we hold dear
|
We recall them in days after
|
Clearly they appear
|
And often times I see
|
A scene that's dear to me
|
|
Back home again in Indiana,
|
And it seems that I can see
|
The gleaming candlelight, still burning bright,
|
Through the sycamores for me.
|
The new-mown hay sends all its fragrance
|
Through the fields I used to roam.
|
When I dream about the moonlight on the Wabash,
|
How I long for my Indiana home.
|
|
-----------------
|
Indiana
|
| Louis Armstrong |
