Written by
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
(This fine poem is given by Goethe amongst a
small collection of what he calls Loge (Lodge), meaning thereby
Masonic pieces.)
THE mason's trade
Observe them well,
Resembles life, And
watch them revealing
With all its strife,-- How
solemn feeling
Is like the stir made And
wonderment swell
By man on earth's face. The
hearts of the brave.
Though weal and woe The
voice of the blest,
The future may hide, And
of spirits on high
Unterrified Seems
loudly to cry:
We onward go
"To do what is best,
In ne'er changing race. Unceasing
endeavour!
A veil of dread
"In silence eterne
Hangs heavier still. Here
chaplets are twin'd,
Deep slumbers fill
That each noble mind
The stars over-head, Its
guerdon may earn.--
And the foot-trodden grave.
Then hope ye for ever!"
1827.*
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Written by
Robert Burns |
YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
To follow the noble vocation;
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
To sit in that honoured station.
I’ve little to say, but only to pray,
As praying’s the ton of your fashion;
A prayer from thee Muse you well may excuse
’Tis seldom her favourite passion.
Ye powers who preside o’er the wind, and the tide,
Who markèd each element’s border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
Whose sovereign statute is order:—
Within this dear mansion, may wayward Contention
Or witherèd Envy ne’er enter;
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
And brotherly Love be the centre!
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Written by
Robert Burns |
NO churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare,
For a big-belly’d bottle’s the whole of my care.
The peer I don’t envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air?
There a big-belly’d bottle still eases my care.
The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
for sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-belly’d bottle’s a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter inform’d me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddl’d upstairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
“Life’s cares they are comforts”—a maxim laid down
By the Bard, what d’ye call him, that wore the black gown;
And faith I agree with th’ old prig to a hair,
For a big-belly’d bottle’s a heav’n of a care.
A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGEThen fill up a bumper and make it o’erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw;
May ev’ry true Brother of the Compass and Square
Have a big-belly’d bottle when harass’d with care.
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