The Mother-Lodge
There was Rundle, Station Master,An’ Beazeley of the Rail,An’ ‘Ackman, Commissariat,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 Mohammed, draughtsmanOf 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 backwardsIt 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 stirredTill mornin’ waked the parrotsAn’ that dam’ brain-fever-bird;We’d say ’twas ‘ighly curious,An’ we’d all ride ‘ome to bed,With Mo’ammed, God, an’ ShivaChangin’ pickets in our ‘ead.
Full oft on Guv’ment serviceThis rovin’ foot ‘ath pressed,An’ bore fraternal greetin’sTo the Lodges east an’ west,Accordin’ as commandedFrom Kohat to Singapore,But I wish that I might see themIn my Mother-Lodge once more!
I wish that I might see them,My Brethren black an’ brown,With the trichies smellin’ pleasantAn’ the hog-darn passin’ down;An’ the old khansamah snorin’On the bottle-khana floor,Like a Master in good standingWith 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!
‘Follow Me ‘Ome’
There was no one like ‘im, ‘Orse or Foot,Nor any o’ the Guns I knew;An’ because it was so, why, o’ course ‘e went an’ died,Which is just what the best men do.
So it’s knock out your pipes an’ follow me!An’ it’s finish up your swipes an’ follow me!Oh, ‘ark to the big drum callin’,Follow me—follow me ‘ome!
‘Is mare she neighs the ‘ole day long,She paws the ‘ole night through,An’ she won’t take ‘er feed ’cause o’ waitin’ for ‘is step,Which is just what a beast would do.
‘Is girl she goes with a bombardierBefore ‘er month is through;An’ the banns are up in church, for she’s got the beggar hooked,Which is just what a girl would do.
We fought ’bout a dog—last week it were—No more than a round or two;But I strook ‘im cruel ‘ard, an’ I wish I ‘adn’t now,Which is just what a man can’t do.
‘E was all that I ‘ad in the way of a friend,An’ I’ve ‘ad to find one new;But I’d give my pay an’ stripe for to get the beggar back,Which it’s just too late to do.
So it’s knock out your pipes an’ follow me!An’ it’s finish off your swipes an’ follow me!Oh, ‘ark to the fifes a-crawlin’!Follow me—follow me ‘ome!
Take ‘im away! ‘E’s gone where the best men go.Take ‘im away! An’ the gun-wheels turnin’ slow.Take ‘im away! There’s more from the place ‘e come.Take ‘im away, with the limber an’ the drum.
For it’s “Three rounds blank” an’ follow me,An’ it’s “Thirteen rank” an’ follow me;Oh, passin’ the love o’ women,Follow me—follow me ‘ome!