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THE LETTER Of The Master Of Lodge
- Let's start in poetry

 

Dearest Brother,
in recent days surfing the net I came across this poem by Rudyard Kipling (Bombay 1865 - London 1936), dedicated to his lodge "Hope and Perseverance" in Lahore, Pakistan. A declaration of love for Masonic life, a healthy nostalgia that is well suited to these uncertain times, eager for normality.

 

THE MOTHER LODGE

 

There was Rundle,

Station Master,

An' Beazeley of the Rail,

An' 'Ackman, Commissariat,

An' Donkin' o' the Jail;

An' Blake, Conductor-Sergeant,

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 banquets, 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.

rom 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!

 

See you soon, and may it be a good year!
S&F

W.M. M.B. Master of Lodge