PROVINCIAL GRAND ROYAL ARCH CHAPTER OF FIFE & KINROSS
POETRY
Does any Companion have any favourite masonic poetry
or poetry written by Freemasons that could be published here?
Many men from our Province have recently been in harms way and with the
chattering classes doing what they do best and with growing indifference to
increasing losses this poem comes to mind.
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go
away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band
begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band
begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait
outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the
trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the
tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the
trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's
yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums
begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums
begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall
be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when
there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the
wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's
trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out,
the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns
begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
Companion John Henderson is moved by these two poems
and suggests that they be presented as:
WHAT WE BELIEVE ... ... .
A MAN's A MAN FOR A' THAT
Is there for honest poverty
That hings his head, an a'
that?
The coward slave, we pass him by
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an a' that!
Our toils obscure, an a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a'
that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodding grey, an a'
that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an a' that,
Their tinsel show, an a' that,
The honest man, tho e'er sae poor,
Is king o men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie ca'd `a
lord,'
Wha struts, an stares, an a' that?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a'
that.
For a' that, an a' that,
His ribband, star, an a' that,
The man o' independent mind,
He looks an laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an a' that!
But an honest man's aboon his
might
Guid faith, he mauna fa'
that!
For a' that, an a' that,
Their dignities, an a' that,
The pith o' sense an pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a' that),
That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree an a'
that.
For a' that, an a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the world, o'er
Shall brithers be for a' that.
Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)
& WHO WE ARE ... ... .
THE MOTHER-LODGE
There was Rundle, Station Master,
An' Beazeley of the Rail,
An' 'Ackman, Commissariat,
An' Donkin' o' the Jail;
An' Blake, Conductor-Sargent,
Our Master twice was 'e,
With 'im that kept the Europe-shop,
Old Framjee Eduljee.
Outside -- "Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!"
Inside -- "Brother", an' it doesn't do no 'arm.
We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square,
An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!
We'd Bola Nath, Accountant,
An' Saul the Aden Jew,
An' Din Mohammed, draughtsman
Of the Survey Office too;
There was Babu Chuckerbutty,
An' Amir Singh the Sikh,
An' Castro from the fittin'-sheds,
The Roman Catholick!
We 'adn't good regalia,
An' our Lodge was old an' bare,
But we knew the Ancient Landmarks,
An' we kep' 'em to a hair;
An' lookin' on it backwards
It often strikes me thus,
There ain't such things as infidels,
Excep', per'aps, it's us.
For monthly, after Labour,
We'd all sit down and smoke
(We dursn't give no banquits,
Lest a Brother's caste were broke),
An' man on man got talkin'
Religion an' the rest,
An' every man comparin'
Of the God 'e knew the best.
So man on man got talkin',
An' not a Brother stirred
Till mornin' waked the parrots
An' that dam' brain-fever-bird;
We'd say 'twas 'ighly curious,
An' we'd all ride 'ome to bed,
With Mo'ammed, God, an' Shiva
Changin' pickets in our 'ead.
Full oft on Guv'ment service
This rovin' foot 'ath pressed,
An' bore fraternal greetin's
To the Lodges east an' west,
Accordin' as commanded
From Kohat to Singapore,
But I wish that I might see them
In my Mother-Lodge once more!
I wish that I might see them,
My Brethren black an' brown,
With the trichies smellin' pleasant
An' the ~hog-darn~ passin'
down;
An' the old khansamah snorin'
On the bottle-khana
floor,
Like a Master in good standing
With my Mother-Lodge once more!
Outside -- "Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!"
Inside -- "Brother", an' it doesn't do no 'arm.
We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square,
An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
SEASONS
To everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal,
a time to break down; and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silent, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
a time of war, and a time of peace.
To
everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under heaven.
Solomon (?)
If
If you can keep
your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired of waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal with lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream -
and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your
aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to,
broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out-tools;
If you can make
one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breath a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold
on!"
If you can talk
with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)
These poems were submitted by Brother Andy Mural P.M. of Lodge Hesperus No.173
a S.C. lodge in Port Of Spain, Trinidad.
Brotherhood
Should the chances of life ever
tempt me to roam,
In a Lodge of Freemasons I'll still find a home;
There the sweet smile of friendship still welcomes each guest,
And brotherly love gives that welcome a zest.
When I'm absent from Lodge, pleasure
tempts me in vain,
As I sigh for the moments of meeting again;
For friendship and harmony truly are there,
When we meet on the level and act on the square.
There the soul-binding union surely
is known,
Which united both the peasant and prince on the throne;
There the rich and the poor on the level do meet,
And as Brothers each other most cordially greet.
On the quicksands of life should a
Brother be thrown,
It is then that the friendship of Brethren is known;
For the heart points the hand, his distress to remove;
Our motto is "Kindness and Brotherly Love".
When the Master of all, in His
far-seeing love,
Shall issue His call to the Grand Lodge above;
May each Brother be found, prince, peasant, or lord,
To be duly prepared to receive his reward.
Anon.
Masonry, Divine Art
Hail, Masonry divine!
Glory of ages shine,
Long may'st thou reign:
Where'er thy lodges stand,
May they have great command,
And always grace the land,
Thou Art divine!
Great fabric, still arise,
And grace the azure skies,
Great are thy schemes!
Thy noble orders are
Matchless beyond compare:
No art with thee can share,
Thou Art divine!
Anon.
LOGOS
In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God;
and the Word was God.
The same was in the beginning with God,
All things were made by him;
and without him was not anything made that was made.
In him was the life;
and the life was the light of men.
And the light shineth in darkness;
and the darkness comprehendeth it not.
John the Evangelist (?)
A cheerful number from a famous American Freemason.
EVERY YEAR
The Spring has less of brightness
Every year,
And the snow a ghastlier whiteness
Every year.,
Nor do Summer flowers quicken,
Nor Autumn fruitage thicken
As they once did, -- for we sicken
Every year.
It is growing darker, colder,
Every year, --
As the heart and soul grow older
Every year.,
I care not now for dancing
Nor for eyes with passion glancing,
Love is less and less entrancing,
Every year.
Of the loves and sorrows blended,
Every year, --
Of the charms of friendships ended,
Every year, --
Of the ties that still might bind me
Until time of death resigned me,
My infirmities remind me
Every year.
Ah, how sad to look before us
Every year, --
While the cloud looks darker o'er us
Every year!
When we see the blossoms faded
That to bloom we might have aided
And immortal garlands braided,
Every year.
To the past go more dead faces
Every year, --
As the loved leave vacant places
Every year.
Everywhere the sad eyes meet us,
In the evening's dusk they greet us,
And to come to them entreat us,
Every year.
You are growing old, they tell us,
Every year
You are more alone, they tell us,
Every year.,
You can win no new affection,
You have only recollection,
Deeper sorrow and dejection,
Every year.
Yes, the shores of life are shifting
Every year,
And we are seaward drifting
Every year,
Old places changing fret us, --
The living more regret us, --
There are fewer to regret us,
Every year.
But the true life draweth nigher
Every year.,
And its Morning Star climbs higher
Every year,
Earth's hold on us grows slighter,
And the heavy burden lighter,
And the Dawn Immortal brighter,
Every year.
Albert Pike (1809 - 1891)
A (bad ?) translation of a German brother's work.
THE HIDDEN MEANING
A Mason's ways are
A type of existence,
And his persistence
Is as the days are
Of men in the world.
The future hides in it
Good hap or sorrow,
We pass through it --
Naught there abides in it
Daunting us--onward.
And silent, before us,
Veiled the dark portal,
Goal of all mortal;
Stars silent rest over us,
Graves under us are silent.
But heard are the voices --
Voice of the sages
Of the world and the ages --
Choose well, your choice is
Brief, but yet endless.
Here eyes do regard you
In eternity's stillness,
Here is all fullness,
Ye brave, to reward you,
Work, and despair not.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749 - 1832)
From a Book which some theologians have thought should not be in the canon
but which nonetheless seems to strike a chord with many Scottish Freemasons.
THE PREACHER
Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth,
while the evil days come not,
nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say,
I have no pleasure in them;
While the sun, or the light,
or the moon, or the stars,
be not darkened,
nor the clouds return after the rain;
In the days when the keepers of the house shall tremble
and the strong men shall bow themselves,
and the grinders shall cease because they are few,
and those that look out of the windows be darkened,
And the doors shall be shut in the street,
when the sound of the grinding is low,
and he shall rise up at the sound of a bird,
and all the daughters of musick shall be brought low;
Also when they shall be afraid of that which is high,
and fears shall be in the way,
and the almond tree shall flourish,
and the grasshopper shall be a burden,
and desire shall fail;
because man goeth to his long home,
and the mourners go about the streets;
Or ever the silver chord be loosened,
or the golden bowl be broken at the fountain,
or the wheel broken at the cistern.
Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was;
and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.
Vanity of vanities saith the preacher; all is vanity.
Solomon (?)
