Classic Poem

Ye blithe and happy few
Ye true, ye merry, merry men,
Come, now, I'll sing to you
A good old mystic strain;
When the Rules and the Tools
Made men free and bold;
And the Masons were like brothers —
They were not like any others
In the Grand, Grand Days of Old!

How broad, how high toward Heaven
Their Temple nobly, nobly soared!
And there 'twas grandly given —
The Presence OF THE L ORD ;
For his fire, on each spire,
Did the craft behold;
When the Masons were like brothers —
They were not like any others
In the Grand, Grand Days of Old!

The tears of kings and craft,
Like drops of heavy, heavy dew,
Fell on our Beauteous Shaft
That crime had rent in two;
And the dirge of the surge,
Like a deep bell tolled;
And the Masons were like brothers —
They were not like any others
In the Grand, Grand Days of Old!

They bore our Master then,
With still and broken, broken heart;
No skill like his again
Shall bless the Royal Art;
For His lamp, through death's damp,
Cannot light our mold;
Though the Masons were like brothers —
They were not like any others
In the Grand, Grand Days of Old!

But shall we not revive
Those good, those happy; happy days?
Our M ASTER bids us strive,
And all our toil repays.
We can trust, — He is just,
And will not withhold
While the Masons act like brothers,
And be not like any others,
As in Grand, Grand Days of Old!