| |
| THERE was Rundle, Station Master, | |
| An’ Beazeley of the Rail, | |
| An’ ’Ackman, Commissariat, | |
| An’ Donkin’ o’ the Jail; | |
| An’ Blake, Conductor-Sergeant, | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| Of the Survey Office too; | |
| There was Babu Chuckerbutty, | |
| An’ Amir Singh the Sikh, | |
| An’ Castro from the fittin’-sheds, | |
| The Roman Catholick! | 20 |
| |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| (We dursn’t give no banquets, | |
| Lest a Brother’s caste were broke), | |
| An’ man on man got talkin’ | |
| Religion an’ the rest, | |
| An’ every man comparin’ | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| 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 | 45 |
| This rovin’ foot ’ath pressed, | |
| An’ bore fraternal greetin’s | |
| To the Lodges east an’ west, | |
| Accordin’ as commanded. | |
| From Kohat to Singapore, | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| An’ the hog-darn 1 passin’ down; | |
| An’ the old khansamah 2 snorin’ | |
| On the bottle-khana 3 floor, | |
| Like a Master in good standing | |
| With my Mother-Lodge once more. | 60 |
| |
| 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! | |
