MOTHER LODGE
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
There was Rundle, Station Master,
An' Beazeley of the Rail,
An' Ackman, Commissariart,
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 Mahammed, draughtsman
Of the Survey Office, too;
There was Babu Chuckerbutty,
An' Amir Sing the Sikh,
An' Castro from the fittin'-sheds
The Roman Catholick.
We 'adn't good regalia,
And our Lodge was old and bare,
But we knew the Ancient Landmarks
And kept them to a hair;
An' lookin' on it backwards
It often strikes me thus,
There ain't such things as infidels,
Excep', perhaps, 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 was broke),
An' man on man got talkin'
Religion and the rest,
An' every man comparin'
Of the God he 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 Gov'ment service
This rovin' foot 'ath pressed,
An' bore fraternal greetin's
To the Lodges east and 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 and 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!