Gulabāgichār bulbuli āmi rogin prēmēr gā’i gazal hai. Onurāgēr lāl śhārāb mōr chokhe chole jholomol (hāẏe).Āmār gānēr modir chōẏāẏ gōlāp kurir ghum ṭuṭē jāẏ,shae gān śhunē prēm dī’vānā kobir āan̐khi cholochol (hāẏ)lāl śhirājer gēlāsh hathē thannī shākī poṛē ḍhulē,āmār gānēr miṭhā pānir lohor bohē nohor phūlē. Phuṭē oṭhē ānārkoli nāchē bhromor roṅg pāgol (hāẏ)
I am that bird of gardens who sings of a young love. A dazzling love which is reflected in the poet’s wine filled eyes. Listening to the music, flower buds awakened. And hearing it the poet’s eyes brightened. Taking his goblet his friends have gathered; their sweetness bathing waters where the lotus blooms. Again the young buds danced like a bee, crazy as the season in which they were born.