Classic Poem

Old Jephtha Hoys had drilled his boys
With gavel, plumb and square, sir,
Till every craft a perfect shatt
Stood perpendicular, sir.
Each Friday night 'twas his delight
To call them to the hall, sir,
And catechise the willing boys,
Till each could " cut and call, " sir.

One evening late it was his fate,
In leaning back his chair, sir,
The window glass right through to pass,
And push the thing too far, sir;
In fact, he fled, heels over head,
Clear down unto the ground, sir;
With mighty noise old Jephtha Hoys
A broken neck had found, sir.

The neighbors there, with tender care,
Prepared him for the tomb, sir,
And on the way, a long array
Went out with grief and gloom, sir;
Yet many said, with whispering dread,
" No Mason here is seen, sir! "
Strange to declare, not one was there,
To cast the mystic green, sir!

I'll tell you where those Masons were, —
Prepare for much surprise, sir, —
When Jephtha Hoys forsook his boys,
He left them on the rise , sir!
The Brethren stood straight as they could,
Till he should bid them sit, sir;
And as he's gone with no return,
Why, there they're standing yet, sir.

The Tyler bore, outside the door,
The pangs of cold and thirst, sir;
The Wardens twain do still remain,
And will till they are dust, sir;
The Deacons stand with rod in hand,
Not one will budge the least, sir;
And, strange to own, each skeleton
Is facing to the East , sir.

Then be my task humbly to ask
Each Master this to read, sir,
And beg and pray to them, that they
The moral well may heed, sir;
When calling up the mystic group,
To stand and catechise, sir,
Think of those boys of Jephtha Hoys,
Who perished on the rise , sir.