staffs
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Post by staffs on Dec 24, 2004 14:44:39 GMT
A Freemason's Christmas Wish By Brother Andrew Bradley
It is the time of year when the Brethren rejoice, and sing carols of praise in resounding voice. Days of merriment and long nights of cheer, as we all await the "Happy New Year!". It is a time of family and life long friends, a time of happiness and to make amends. Roast turkey and baubles and the Nutcracker Suite, we each have our own way to make Christmas complete.
As we stroll through this happy month of December find time to pause and take time to remember that distinguishing sign of a Freemason's heart - those acts of Charity. How great they are. As your family gathers 'round your Christmas tree, and the children play with giggles of glee, spare a thought for the poor, the man with no shoes, whose daily meal is less than your dues.
Remember also the Grand Lodge above, and the Supreme Great Architect's act of love. And practise those virtues we hold so true. Have some fun! But let Temperance chasten you. And during this season of peace and joy look well to our future - the girl and boy. Then wonder what lessons you may them teach, and with your guidance what heights they may reach.
So, to all of my Brethren from far and wide, whether your Christmas be snow, or hot and dry, may the Architect grant his celestial boon and keep your good health 'til we meet again soon. Take care of yourself and those you find dear. Keep this festive spirit throughout the next year. Look toward your next date with our happy band. 'Til our next merry meeting. Apron, heart, and hand.
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staffs
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Post by staffs on Jun 6, 2005 22:11:55 GMT
King Solomon Had His Troubles, Too! (Author Unknown) We take you back in history, Three Thousand years in span, To One revered Freemasonry- King Solomon, the man. He took an Apron and a Trowel, A Compass and a Square, And with a royal, firm avowal, He raised a Temple fair. He fashioned us a way of life, Of love and brotherhood, That stretched beyond his country's strife- A Plumb-line road for good. But then-within his palace walls, His problems were immense: A thousand wives who roamed his halls- Imagine the expense! How could he ever keep in mind Each anniversary day? If we would seek the truth, we'd find That the man had heck to pay! His problems mounted by the score With every brand new bride; How could he ever walk the floor With every babe that cried? He must have tightened many a veil To quiet nagging tongues- But that would be to no avail With healthy female lungs. Yes, King Solomon must have had his share Of trial and tribulation; Just one wife need a lot of care- He married a whole nation! He must have built that temple for A little peace and quiet, Where he could go and close the door Against that female riot. A woman's always had her say- We know that to be true; The only thing that's changed today- We share the Temple, Too.
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ruffashlar
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Lodge Milncroft No. 1515 (GLoS), Govanhill Royal Arch Chapter 523 (S.G.R.A.C.S.)
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Post by ruffashlar on Jun 7, 2005 3:20:32 GMT
A builder named Hiram Abiff Was told by three Fellowcrafts, if He refused to explain, His two b....s they would cane And that left him feeling quite stiff.
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Post by taylorsman on Jun 7, 2005 9:29:00 GMT
;D Brilliant Ruff. I haven't laughed so much since Rangers won the SPL a few weeks ago!
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staffs
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Post by staffs on Jun 8, 2005 14:33:53 GMT
Steve on a previous thread mentioned this Poem by Kipling : so here it is:
THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR
'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead? She 'as ships on the foam -- she 'as millions at 'ome, An' she pays us poor beggars in red. (Ow, poor beggars in red!) There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses, There's 'er mark on the medical stores -- An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind That takes us to various wars. (Poor beggars! -- barbarious wars!) Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor, An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns, The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces O' Missis Victorier's sons. (Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)
Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor, For 'alf o' Creation she owns: We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame, An' we've salted it down with our bones. (Poor beggars! -- it's blue with our bones!) Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow, Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop, For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"! (Poor beggars! -- we're sent to say "Stop"!) Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow, From the Pole to the Tropics it runs -- To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file, An' open in form with the guns. (Poor beggars! -- it's always they guns!)
We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor, It's safest to let 'er alone: For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land Wherever the bugles are blown. (Poor beggars! -- an' don't we get blown!) Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin', An' flop round the earth till you're dead; But you won't get away from the tune that they play To the bloomin' old rag over'ead. (Poor beggars! -- it's 'ot over'ead!) Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow, Wherever, 'owever they roam. 'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require A speedy return to their 'ome. (Poor beggars! -- they'll never see 'ome!)
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giovanni
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odi profanum vulgus, et arceo
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Post by giovanni on Jun 22, 2005 12:21:42 GMT
Kipling's Mother Lodge
THERE was Rundle, Station Master, An' Beazeley of the Rail, An' 'Ackman, Commissariat, An' Donkin' o' the Jail; An' Blake, Conductor-Sergeant, 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 Mohammed, draughtsman Of the Survey Office too; There was Babu Chuckerbutty, An' Amir Singh the Sikh, An' Castro from the fittin'-sheds, The Roman Catholick! We 'adn't good regalia, An' our Lodge was old an' bare, But we knew the Ancient Landmarks, An' we kep' 'em to a hair; An' lookin' on it backwards It often strikes me thus, There ain't such things as infidels, Excep', per'aps, 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 were broke), An' man on man got talkin' Religion an' the rest, An' every man comparin' Of the God 'e 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 Guv'ment service This rovin' foot 'ath pressed, An' bore fraternal greetin's To the Lodges east an' 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 an' brown, With the trichies smellin' pleasant An' the hog-darn passin' down;1. An' the old khansamah snorin' 2. On the bottle-khana floor, 3. 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! 1. Cigar-lighter ^ 2. Butler ^ 3. Pantry ^
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Post by generalpike on Jun 22, 2005 12:39:47 GMT
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Post by billmcelligott on Jun 22, 2005 16:27:19 GMT
That last Poem submitted by Alex Ferguson ?
Naaaagh it can't be.
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Post by billmcelligott on Jun 22, 2005 17:54:11 GMT
The plainest Lodge room in the land was over Simpkins' store, Where Friendship Lodge had met each month for fifty' years or more. When o'er the earth the moon full-orbed, had cast her brightest beams, The Brethren came from miles around on horseback and In teams, And 0! what heavy grasp of hand, what welcome met them there, As mingling with the waiting groups they slowly mount the stair, Exchanging fragmentary news or prophecies of crop, Until they reach the Tyler's room and current topics drop, To turn their thoughts to nobler themes they cherish and adore, And which were heard on meeting night up over Simpkins' Store. To city eyes, a cheerless room, long usage had defaced, The tell-tale lines of lath and beam on wall and ceiling traced. The light from oil-fed lamps was dim and yellow in its hue, The carpet once could pattern boast though now 'twas lost to view The altar and the pedestals that marked the stations three, The gate-post pillars topped with balls, the rude-carved Letter G, Were village joiner's clumsy work, with many things beside, Where beauty's lines were all effaced and ornament denied. There could be left no lingering doubt if doubt there was before, The plainest Lodge room in the land was over Simpkins' Store. While musing thus on outward form the meeting time drew near And we had glimpse of inner life through watchful eye and ear. When Lodge convened at gavel's sound with officers in place, We looked for strange, conglomerate work, but could no errors trace. The more we saw the more we heard, the greater our amaze, To find those country Brethren there so skilled in Masons' ways. But greater marvels were to come before the night was through, Where unity was not mere name, but fell on hearts like dew Where tenets had the mind imbued, and truths rich fruitage bore, In plainest Lodge room in the land, up over Simpkins' Store. To hear the record of their acts was music to the ear We sing of deeds unwritten which on angel's scroll appear; A widow's case for our helpless ones Lodge funds were running low A dozen Brethren sprang to feet and offers were not slow Food, raiment things of needful sort while one gave load of wood, Another shoes for little ones, for each gave what he could. Then spoke the last 'I haven't things like these to give out then, Some ready money may help out'; - and he laid down a ten. Were Brother cast on darkest square upon life's checkered floor A beacon light to reach the white was over Simpkins' Store. Like scoffer who remained to pray, impressed by sight and sound, The faded carpet 'neath our feet was now like holy ground. The walls that had such a dingy look turned celestial blue, The ceiling changed to canopy where stars were shining through. Bright tongues of flame from altar leaped, the G was vivid blaze, All common things seemed glorified by heaven's reflected rays. 0! wondrous transformation wrought through ministry of love- Behold the Lodge Room Beautiful! fair type of that above, The vision fades-the lesson lives! and taught as ne'er before, In plainest Lodge room in the land-up over Simpkins' Check out the graphics: www.masonicinfo.com/simpkinsstore.htm
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staffs
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Post by staffs on Jun 22, 2005 19:23:28 GMT
OUR GUESTS :
From : The Brighthelmstone Deacon December 1981 no 18
Of all of the pleasures of Masons The one that we brethren like best -which is truly Masonic and acts like a tonic- Is to welcome-to our lodge –a guest!
Whenever we meet in the Temple, Where the Brighthelmstone Banner’s unfurled We welcome each guest,as “one of the best” -from next door,to half round the world.
Wheter Master or Entered Apprentice; Of Grand Rank-or one of the boys, Our feeling’s the same,we are glad that they came To share with us,Masonry’s joys.
So we hope that its truly apparent That it comes from the heart when we say To each guest,at each meeting,a Brighthelmstone Greeting- “You’re welcome as flowers in May”
W.Bro Ken Brown PPrGreg Brighthelmstone 8042
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staffs
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Post by staffs on Jun 22, 2005 19:24:44 GMT
PAUSE FOR REFLECTION from the Brighthelmstone Deacon June 1975
There was an old Past Master,who Was full of sayings,good and true; Honours had he by the score – Stepped was he in Mason’s lore; He,all the Ancient Landmarks knew – The Book of Constitutions too ! – A fountainhead of knowledge he – A walking “Goulds Freemasonry” !
One summer day we chanced to meet I spied him sitting on a seat Viewing a truly English scene; Watching the bowlers on the green In Preston Park; he beckoned me To sit beside him ‘neath the tree. We watched the game,then,at its close We talked;the subject soon arose Of Masonry,in other days, In other places,far away From Brighton on a summer day. After a while,my way was clear To say to him,in words sincere “With all the knowledge you have stored (Of your own free will and accord !) Could I prevail on you to find Tucked safe away,within your mind Perhaps,a wise and telling phrase To guide me on my future ways ? My question asked,I silent fell So that I should not break the spell: He looked at me; I met his eyes And they were,oh, so wordly wise: The words he spoke are with me yet – The words I never shall forget……
“What sort of Lodge would my Lodge be- If every brother was-just like me ?”…….
By W.Bro Ken Brown PPrGreg
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staffs
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Post by staffs on Jun 22, 2005 19:25:39 GMT
WILFRID
From The Brighthelmstone Deacon Magazine June 1987
Wilfrid is a garden gnome Who lives near to Brian Parsons home And never has been known to roam From where he’s situated.
When Brian learns his lines by heart To try them out he has to start -So Wilfrid plays the other part -And gets Initiated !
For all his patience he is praised If you could know, you’d be amazed How often he is “passed” and “raised” -With words he’s saturated.
His faithfulness : Some prize must rate Perhaps a rise to higher state As “Past Provincial Candidate” ? He would be most elated !
So,should you pass a garden fair Ans see a wise gnome sitting there Who does Provincial Apron wear – Its Wilfrid – decorated !
W.Bro Brian Parsons was Master of Brighthelmstone Lodge 8042 Dec 1986 to Dec 1987
By W.Bro Ken Brown PPrGReg
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Post by Siontific on Jul 3, 2005 10:38:44 GMT
This is currently my favourite poem. For me it says a lot about the basic principles of Freemasonry.
TO THE BUILDERS OF A MASONIC LODGE (Anonymous)
An old man, travelling a lone highway, Came at the evening, cold and grey, To a chasm vast and deep and wide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim, The sullen stream had no fear for him; But he turned when safe on the other side, And built a bridge to span the tide.
"Old man", cried a fellow pilgrim near, "You are wasting your strength when building here Your journey will end with the ending day; You never again will pass this way. You've crossed the chasm, deep and wide, Why build you this bridge at eventide?"
The builder lifted his old, grey head; "Good friend, in the path I have come," he said, "There follows after me to-day, A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm, that has been as nought to me, To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be; He, too, must cross in the twilight dim – Good friend, I have built this bridge for him."
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Post by petertaylor on Oct 1, 2005 17:29:32 GMT
IT WAS JUST A LITTLE LODGE ROOM.
Just a quiet little lodge-room, But a mighty force for good; With its loyal band of members Learning more of brotherhood;
Striving, stumbling, but progressing Down a pathway toward the right; Just a humble bunch of plain folks, Reaching, seeking for the light.
Just a quiet little lodge-room How it stirs the heart and soul With the thrill of great endeavor Toward a high and common goal;
With each pledge of faith and courage To maintain the forward fight, On the road that leads them onward Ever onward to the light!
David Taylor Bro David Taylor celebrated 60 years in Freemasonry and has been writing fine poetry for many years. He has produced several booklets and published countless poems all of which have been sold to raise £000s for charity. Bro David has also been honoured by Lodge ALbert as Lodge Bard and by the Provincial Grand Lodge of Forfarshire as Honorary Provincial Grand Bard
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Post by petertaylor on Oct 1, 2005 17:30:59 GMT
THE LITTLE LODGE OF LONG AGO
By Douglas Malloch
The little Lodge of long ago -- It wasn't very much for show: Men met above the village store, And cotton more than satin wore, And sometimes stumbled on a word, But no one cared, or no one heard. The tin reflectors threw the light Of kerosene across the night And down the highway served to call The faithful to Masonic Hall. The little Lodge of long ago.
But, men who meet in finer halls, Forgive me if the mind recalls With love, not laughter, doors of pine And smoky lamps that dimly shine, Regalia tarnished, garments frayed, Or cheaply bought or simply made, And floors uncarpeted, and men Whose grammar falters now and then -- For Craft, or Creed, or God Himself, Is not a book upon a shelf: They have a splendor that will touch, A Lodge that isn't very much.
It wasn't very much -- and yet This made it great: there Masons met, And, if a handful or a host, That always matters, matters most. The beauty of the meeting hour Is not a thing of robe or flow'r, However beautiful they seem: The greatest beauty is the gleam Of sympathy in honest eyes. A Lodge is not a thing of size, It is a thing of Brotherhood, And that alone can make it good
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Post by petertaylor on Oct 1, 2005 17:31:32 GMT
BE ON GAURD
by Bro. Wilbur D. Nesbit
Round the ancient Lodges, Men were set on guard, North and south and east and west, Keeping watch and ward. Silent, steady, sleepless, Keen of ear and eye- On the pathway where they stood No one might creep by.
As the covenanters In each hidden glen Kept a watch and ward without, Posted earnest men- Not as shields of evil, Be it understood: But they knew to keep the faith They must guard the good.
Near the ancient Lodges None might come to see; None might come to listen there Save a sign gave he, For the ancient Lodges, As those of today, Kept the outer creeping folk Very far away.
But, today, each Mason Has a duty high: He must stand a sentinel To all that come nigh; He must guard Masonry, Must protect its name As he would his gate or door Or a woman's name.
How, then, shall we do this? Word and deed must bear Evidence of what is in Compass, plumb and square! So that they who watch us In the daily crowd Shall proclaim that Masonry Is high, and clean, and proud!
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Post by petertaylor on Oct 1, 2005 17:32:07 GMT
THE LODGE WHERE I BELONG
by Bro. Arthur R. Herrman
Though my Lodge may lack the splendor Of a temple or a shrine, Or possess the gaudy fixtures That are classed as superfine- Yet the fellowship it offers Is in price beyond compare And I wouldn't trade it ever For life's treasures- rich or rare!
The hand-clasp firm, the word of cheer, Oh, such meanings they impart: The mystic ties of brotherhood That links us, heart to heart! You'd really have to travel far, For the friendships quite so strong As those one always finds right here In the Lodge where I belong.
When all my earthly travels end, And at last I'm borne to rest Where mortal hands no longer toil And I cease life's endless quest Why there's nothing I'd like better- Should I join the heavenly throng- Then to meet with all the brothers Of the Lodge where I belong!
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giovanni
Member
odi profanum vulgus, et arceo
Posts: 2,627
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Post by giovanni on Mar 3, 2006 5:43:45 GMT
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