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.

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;
An’ the old khansamah snorin’
     On the bottle-khana floor,
Like a Master in good standing
     With my Mother-Lodge once more!