The Master's Song.

Written for the freemasons of St. John's Lodge No. 1, New York.




Members of an order
    Ancient as the earth;
All within our border
    Realize its worth.
Genial is the greeting
    That awaits us there,
On the level meeting,
    Parting on the square.
Like the workmen olden,
    Who our craft designed,
We the precept golden
    Ever bear in mind.

Masons never falter,
    We each other know,
As around the altar
    Hand in hand we go;
Loud hosannas singing
    To our Source above,
And heart-offerings bringing
    To the God of Love.
Like the workmen olden,
    Who our craft designed,
We the precept golden
    Ever bear in mind.

There's a mystic beauty
    In our working plan,
Teaching man his duty
    To his fellow man:
As a band of brothers,
    Ever just and true,
Do we unto others
    As we'd have them do.
Like the workmen olden,
    Who our craft designed,
We the precept golden
    Ever bear in mind.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

Address. For the benefit of James Sheridan Knowles.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Starlight Recollections.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

I Love Thee Still.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Woodman, Spare that Tree!

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Our Poor Brethren.

"Our poor and penniless brethren, dispersed over land and sea."
--Masonic Sentiment



They met in the festive hall,
    Lamps in their brightness shone,
And merry music and mirth,
    Aided the feast of St. John.
Men pledged the health of their Queen
    And of all the Royal band,
The flags of a thousand years,
    The swords of their motherland.

Then mid the revelry came
    The sound of a mournful strain,
Like a minor chord in music,
    A sweet but sad refrain;
It rose on the heated air,
    Like a mourner's earnest plea,
"Our poor and penniless brethren
    Dispersed over land and sea."

Poor and penniless brethren
    Scattered over the world,
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Masonic Hymn.

Our Order, like the ark of yore,
    Upon the raging sea was tossed;
Secure amid the billow's roar,
    It moved, and nothing has been lost.

When elements discordant seek
    To wreck what God in mercy saves,
The struggle is as vain and weak
    As that of the retiring waves.

The Power who bade the waters cease,
    The Pilot of the Pilgrim Band,
He gave the gentle dove of peace
    The branch she bore them from the land.

In him alone we put our trust,
    With heart and hand and one accord,
Ascribing, with the true and just,
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Oddfellowship Lines Read At Concert, 1883.

        We look in vain for our Past Grands,
        Now scattered over many lands,
        Now some o'er the wide world do rove,
        And some have joined Grand Lodge above,
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        We are dependent creatures all,
        Though man is weak yet he may join
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        The illustration it is grand,
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        Each finger hath a different length,
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        You can scarcely break or twist,
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No Master

Saith man to man, We've heard and known
    That we no master need
To live upon this earth, our own,
    In fair and manly deed.
The grief of slaves long passed away
    For us hath forged the chain,
Till now each worker's patient day
    Builds up the House of Pain.

And we, shall we too, crouch and quail,
    Ashamed, afraid of strife,
And lest our lives untimely fail
    Embrace the Death in Life?
Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear,
    We few against the world;
Awake, arise! the hope we bear
    Against the curse is hurled.

It grows and grows--are we the same,
    The feeble band, the few?
Or what are these with eyes aflame,
    And hands to deal and do?
This is the host that bears the word,
    No MASTER HIGH OR LOW -

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Adoniram. A Legend of the Temple.

    The dew was gone,
The morn was bright, the skies were fair,
The flowers smiled neath the sunbeams ray,
Tall cedars grew in beauty there.
As Adoniram took his way,
    To Lebanon.

    Praise his heart filled,
More than four hundred years had fled,
Since from stern Egypt marched the bands,
Whose sons, with Solomon at their head,
And Tyrian brethern's skilful hands,
    Prepare to build.

    He watched them there,
Round every block, and every stone,
Masonic implements were laid,
But around one were many thrown,
And yet it seemed already made,
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    He wandering spake,
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Banquet Night

"Once in so often," King Solomon said,
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"We will club our garlic and wine and bread
And banquet together beneath my Throne,
And all the Brethren shall come to that mess
As Fellow Craftsmen no more and no less."

"Send a swift shallop to Hiram of Tyre,
Felling and floating our beautiful trees,
Say that the Brethren and I desire
Talk with our Brethren who use the seas.
And we shall be happy to meet them at mess
As Fellow Craftsmen no more and no less."

"Carry this message to Hiram Abif,
Excellent master of forge and mine:
I and the Brethren would like it if
He and the Brethren will come to dine
(Garments from Bozrah or morning-dress)
As Fellow Craftsmen-no more and no less."

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