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!