Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
A Poem,
Pouring like locusts o ' er the Scythian plains , Till Thraciah blood the sandy desert stains , And Babylonia ' s palaces and wall By Persian and Masonic valour fall-High o ' er his hosts , an oriflamme of might ,
Waved our proud banner in the golden light . And yet to-day Masonic Brothers stand , In this far distant , free and happy land , And , looking down the vista of the past , Dimming with age , and darkening and o ' ercast , Find our Masonic emblems on the stone
Where buried cities sleep all crumbling and alone ; Our memories are the history of the pa Where vague traditions , mystical and vast , Cluster around our four Masonic lights , And lend their influence to-our holy rites .
What pleasant memories of the past Our ancient Masons bring ; What songs of glorious " auld lang syne " Their veteran voices sing . When ^ rst in Newport's sea-girt town , Late in the purple ' . fall , *'
More than a hundred years ago , Numbering but twelve in all , They met within a little room , And , ere the night was gone , Had worked a good Masonic Lodge , And named it for St John .
Many the memories we might call To night if Ave stood in their ancient hall ; Many ihefSte and the whirling dance—Many the flashing , thrilling glance-Many the notes of music sweet , Kept to the time of fairy feet—Many the lovers and ladies all ,
Have danced in the jig in the Masons hall . If these old walls could talk like folks , We'd split our sides at their cracking jokes ; Think of the stories they might tell Of flattering youth and blushing belle , And how his offers she must mar .
By simpering gently , " Ask my pa ;" Think of the squeezes of little hands—Think of the old cotillon bands , With a flute ' s soft note and a fiddle ' s scream , In " Money MusL" or the " Devil ' s Dream "
No doubt our grandmothers before Have danced all night on that springing floor . Our aged , time-worn-grand sires , now With wrinkled face and furrowed brow , And little shrivelled , trembling legs , For all the world like shrunken pegs , * Anglied— the autumn / '
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software.
A Poem,
Pouring like locusts o ' er the Scythian plains , Till Thraciah blood the sandy desert stains , And Babylonia ' s palaces and wall By Persian and Masonic valour fall-High o ' er his hosts , an oriflamme of might ,
Waved our proud banner in the golden light . And yet to-day Masonic Brothers stand , In this far distant , free and happy land , And , looking down the vista of the past , Dimming with age , and darkening and o ' ercast , Find our Masonic emblems on the stone
Where buried cities sleep all crumbling and alone ; Our memories are the history of the pa Where vague traditions , mystical and vast , Cluster around our four Masonic lights , And lend their influence to-our holy rites .
What pleasant memories of the past Our ancient Masons bring ; What songs of glorious " auld lang syne " Their veteran voices sing . When ^ rst in Newport's sea-girt town , Late in the purple ' . fall , *'
More than a hundred years ago , Numbering but twelve in all , They met within a little room , And , ere the night was gone , Had worked a good Masonic Lodge , And named it for St John .
Many the memories we might call To night if Ave stood in their ancient hall ; Many ihefSte and the whirling dance—Many the flashing , thrilling glance-Many the notes of music sweet , Kept to the time of fairy feet—Many the lovers and ladies all ,
Have danced in the jig in the Masons hall . If these old walls could talk like folks , We'd split our sides at their cracking jokes ; Think of the stories they might tell Of flattering youth and blushing belle , And how his offers she must mar .
By simpering gently , " Ask my pa ;" Think of the squeezes of little hands—Think of the old cotillon bands , With a flute ' s soft note and a fiddle ' s scream , In " Money MusL" or the " Devil ' s Dream "
No doubt our grandmothers before Have danced all night on that springing floor . Our aged , time-worn-grand sires , now With wrinkled face and furrowed brow , And little shrivelled , trembling legs , For all the world like shrunken pegs , * Anglied— the autumn / '