O For A Lodge
'O for a Lodge in some vast wilderness,'
A man cryed out in his distress,
For he was tired and sick of life,
And weary of this worldly strife,
And longed for to be far away
From the continuous daily fray.
But the fond partner of his life,
His own dearest, loving wife,
Those sentiments did not admire,
For fiercely they did rouse her ire.
Said she. ' I'll never let you budge,
To go and join another Lodge;
Your Lodges take six nights each week,
And still another Lodge you seek-
For your whole time they soon will steal,
You won't get home even to a meal,
Continuous abroad you'll roam,
And never enter your own home.'
poem by James McIntyre
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Oddfellowship in Ingersoll
We look in vain for our past grands,
Now scattered over many lands ;
For some o'er the wide world doth rove,
And some have joined Grand Lodge above.
But ever since Father Adam's fall
We are dependent creatures all.
Though man is weak yet he may join
With others, strength for to combine-
A single rod is easily broken,
Bundle is of strength the token.
The illustration, it was grand
Which was given by Reverend Bland,
Five Oddfellows all in one hand
And yet they all united stand,
Each finger hath a different length
Each finger varies in its strength.
Each one is weak, but a firm fist
You can scarcely break or twist.
Tis same with members of a Lodge,
United, them you cannot budge.
Then let us, linked with friendly chain,
Friendship, love and truth maintain,
And aid our brothers in distress,
The widows and the orphans bless ;
Then let each Lodge strive all it can,
Both Oxford and Samaritan,
To aid distressed brother man ;
Extending influence for good
And universal brotherhood.
poem by James McIntyre
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St.Thomas
At time of Oddfellow's Grand Lodge meeting, 1884.
Oddfellows once they had to trudge
O'er rough stage roads to the Grand Lodge,
But now they town of metal seek
And find it on the Kettle Creek ;
For industry it here prevails
As it was built by the steel rails ;
And here the wide expanded bridges
Do connect the distant ridges.
No more need to stay at home, as
There's lots of railroads to St. Thomas.
You pluckily did boldly venture,
Now you are great railroad centre ;
Your city now it hath high hopes
From its great railway work shops,
And higher yet it still will rise,
This seat of so much enterprise.
When young man longs for wedded mate,
He seeks Alma girl graduate.
St. Thomas is baby city named
And for its youthful vigor famed.
poem by James McIntyre
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If I could have a lodge at the sea somewhere
If I could have a lodge
at the sea somewhere
preferably at the south coast,
could lie in the sun
would you come along
and drive into my dreams
and paint the walls like a castle
where only you and I can stay?
We would make fruit salad
from our own bananas,
mangoes and papaws
and would fish every day,
fry barracouta on the coals
and there we might
fall madly in love
and you would paint and hang up paintings
while I try to catch a few words
on paper.
If I could have a lodge
at the sea somewhere
would you come along
come on... what do you say?
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Lodge-Room
Don't bring into the lodge-room
Anger, and spite, and pride.
Drop at the gate of the temple
The strife of the world outside.
Forget all your cares and trials,
Forget every selfish sorrow,
And remember the cause you meet for,
And haste ye the glad to-morrow.
Drop at the gate of the temple
Envy, and spite, and gloom.
Don't bring personal quarrels
And discord into the room.
Forget the slights of a sister,
Forget the wrongs of a brother,
And remember the new commandment,
That ye all love one another.
Bring your heart into the lodge-room,
But leave yourself outside,
That is, your personal feelings,
Ambition, vanity, pride.
Centre each thought and power
On the cause for which you assemble,
Fetter the demon liquor,
And make ye the traffic tremble.
Ay! to fetter and to chain him,
And cast him under our feet,
This is the end we aim at,
The object for which we meet.
Then don't bring into the lodge-room,
Envy, or strife, or pride,
Or aught that will mar our union,
But leave them all outside.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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See how the boy is with his sister and the other ones of his home lodge and you can know how the man will be with your daughter.
Native American Lakota proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Home, Sweet Home
Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain;
Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that come at my call --
Give me them -- and the peace of mind, dearer than all!
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
I gaze on the moon as I tread the drear wild,
And feel that my mother now thinks of her child,
As she looks on that moon from our own cottage door
Thro' the woodbine, whose fragrance shall cheer me no more.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the caress of a mother to soothe and beguile!
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
To thee I'll return, overburdened with care;
The heart's dearest solace will smile on me there;
No more from that cottage again will I roam;
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
Home, home, sweet, sweet, home!
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
poem by John Howard Payne
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I'm Sick And Tired
I'm sick and tired of being trained
To only love the things you’ve stained
I'm sick and tired of leaving behind
Little pieces of me which you’ll find
I’m sick and tired of faking my smiles
And wishing for the pain to go away for awhile
I’m sick and tired of listening to the rain
And counting each pill I take for my pain
I’m sick and tired of grouping for life
When all I want to do is end this strife
I’m sick and tired of loving you
Only to have you say “love ain’t true”
poem by Payyton Egerstaffer
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My Wife Is A Most Knowing Woman
My wife is a most knowing woman,
She always is finding me out,
She never will hear explanations
But instantly puts me to rout,
There's no use to try and deceive her,
If out with my friends night or day,
In a most inconceivable manner,
She tells where I've been right away,
She says that I'm 'mean' and 'inhuman.'
Oh! My wife is a most knowing woman.
She would've been hung up for witchcraft
If she had lived sooner, I know,
There's no hiding anything from her,
She knows what I do -- where I go;
And if I come in after midnight
And say 'I have been to the lodge,'
Oh, she says while she flies in a fury,
'Now don't think to play such a dodge!
It's all very fine, but won't do, man,'
Oh, my wife is a most knowing woman.
Not often I go out to dinner
And come home a little 'so so,'
I try to creep up through the hall-way,
As still as a mouse, on tip-toe,
She's sure to be waiting up for me
And then comes a nice little scene,
'What, you tell me you're sober, you wretch you,
Now don't think that I am so green!
My life is quite worn out with you, man,'
Oh, my wife is a most knowing woman!
She knows me much better than I do,
Her eyes are like those of a lynx,
Though how she discovers my secrets
Is a riddle would puzzle a sphynx,
On fair days, when we go out walking,
If ladies look at me askance,
In the most harmless way, I assure you,
My wife gives me, oh! such a glance,
And says 'all these insults you'll rue, man,'
Oh, my wife is a most knowing woman.
Yes, I must give all of my friends up
If I would live happy and quiet;
One might as well be 'neath a tombstone
As live in confusion and riot.
This life we all know is a short one,
While some tongues are long, heaven knows,
And a miserable life is a husband's
Who numbers his wife with his foes;
I'll stay at home now like a true man,
Oh, my wife is a most knowing woman.
poem by Stephen C. Foster
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I found Spotted Tail's lodge. He invited me to enter.
quote by Buffalo Bill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hypocrites in the Church? Yes, and in the lodge and at the home. Don't hunt through the Church for a hypocrite. Go home and look in the mirror. Hypocrites? Yes. See that you make the number one less.
quote by Billy Sunday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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, 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; [Cigar-lighter.]
An' the old khansamah snorin' [Butler.]
On the bottle-khana floor, [Pantry.]
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!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Sick and Tired
Im sick and tired of the lies you told me.
Sick and tired of what you want me to be.
Sick and tired of the way we live.
Sick and tired Im in such a dread.
Sick and tired I want to go to sleep.
Yea so sick and tired it makes me weak.
Sick and tired dont wanna be me.
Sick and tired of no harmony.
Day aftrer day you just come out and say...
'Tomorrow will be a better day'
Well Im sick and tired of that over used phrase.
So sick and tired of the way you dont change.
Sick and tired I wanna go home.
Oh so sick and tired dont know where I belong.
Sick and tired of not getting along.
So sick and tired, thats it, Im gone.
poem by Ebony Tesfay
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Sick And Tired
Im sick of pretending its all perfect
Tired of living a lie
Sick of loving you
Tired of the tears I cry
Im sick of giving you my love
Tired of getting nothing in return
Sick of all your other girls
Tired of being unable to learn
Im sick of running back to you
Tired of returning hurt
Sick of been laughed about
Tired of being treated like dirt
Im sick of living this life
Tired of being blue
Sick of thoughts about giving up
Tired of the stupid things I do
Im so sick of it all
So sick Im going do it
So tired of been stuck in the middle
So tired Im going to quit
Literature is mostly about having sex and not much about having children. Life is the other way round.
quote by David Lodge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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After School (Villanelles)
Don’t think that school’s the hardest time in life.
You will graduate soon but don’t forget.
Believe, Believe do not end it in strife.
Some people will deal with it with a knife,
Because they are scared to try to forget.
Don’t think that school’s the hardest time in life.
Others might get rich and have a good life,
But it could end up in a huge regret.
Believe, Believe do not end it in strife.
Few may stay single in Gods way of life,
They will find happiness they won’t forget
Don’t think that school’s the hardest time in life.
Most have a fine job and a loving wife.
Someone to go home to and be a set
Believe, Believe do not end it in strife.
For you who don’t take the bad way in life,
Will be happy and never have regret.
Don’t think that school’s the hardest time in life.
Believe, Believe do not end it in strife.
poem by Martin Glenn
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I fear that the hearts of the vast majority of mankind would beat on strongly and steadily and without any quickening if the league were to perish altogether.
quote by Henry Cabot Lodge
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Life must be considered sui generis; it is not a form of energy, nor can it be expressed in terms of something else.
quote by Oliver Joseph Lodge
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How The Robin Came
AN ALGONQUIN LEGEND.
HAPPY young friends, sit by me,
Under May's blown apple-tree,
While these home-birds in and out
Through the blossoms flit about.
Hear a story, strange and old,
By the wild red Indians told,
How the robin came to be:
Once a great chief left his son,--
Well-beloved, his only one,--
When the boy was well-nigh grown,
In the trial-lodge alone.
Left for tortures long and slow
Youths like him must undergo,
Who their pride of manhood test,
Lacking water, food, and rest.
Seven days the fast he kept,
Seven nights he never slept.
Then the young boy, wrung with pain,
Weak from nature's overstrain,
Faltering, moaned a low complaint
'Spare me, father, for I faint!'
But the chieftain, haughty-eyed,
Hid his pity in his pride.
'You shall be a hunter good,
Knowing never lack of food;
You shall be a warrior great,
Wise as fox and strong as bear;
Many scalps your belt shall wear,
If with patient heart you wait
Bravely till your task is done.
Better you should starving die
Than that boy and squaw should cry
Shame upon your father's son!'
When next morn the sun's first rays
Glistened on the hemlock sprays,
Straight that lodge the old chief sought,
And boiled sainp and moose meat brought.
'Rise and eat, my son!' he said.
Lo, he found the poor boy dead!
As with grief his grave they made,
And his bow beside him laid,
Pipe, and knife, and wampum-braid,
On the lodge-top overhead,
Preening smooth its breast of red
And the brown coat that it wore,
Sat a bird, unknown before.
And as if with human tongue,
'Mourn me not,' it said, or sung;
'I, a bird, am still your son,
Happier than if hunter fleet,
Or a brave, before your feet
Laying scalps in battle won.
Friend of man, my song shall cheer
Lodge and corn-land; hovering near,
To each wigwam I shall bring
Tidings of the corning spring;
Every child my voice shall know
In the moon of melting snow,
When the maple's red bud swells,
And the wind-flower lifts its bells.
As their fond companion
Men shall henceforth own your son,
And my song shall testify
That of human kin am I.'
Thus the Indian legend saith
How, at first, the robin came
With a sweeter life from death,
Bird for boy, and still the same.
If my young friends doubt that this
Is the robin's genesis,
Not in vain is still the myth
If a truth be found therewith
Unto gentleness belong
Gifts unknown to pride and wrong;
Happier far than hate is praise,--
He who sings than he who slays.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Deaf Sentences
Deaf sentences cause the refrain,
“There’s failure to communicate, ”
which people who’ve been checked complain
when stymied by a dumb stalemate.
We ought to wonder who’s the cause
of silence in this failure? We
should, when we sense the silence, pause
and ask ourselves if it could be
the problems of our failure to
communicate. We often see,
but do not hear, when we pursue
our own agendas, sentencing
ourselves and those whom we ignore
with deafness, carrying a sting
that’s worse than wasps, and hurts much more.
Inspired by Michiko Kakutani’s review of “Deaf Sentences” by David Lodge (“Hearing and Dreams Both Fading, ” NYT, October 10,2008) :
The title of David Lodge’s latest novel, “Deaf Sentence, ” is, of course, a play on words, and there are many others scattered throughout these pages: “Deaf and the maiden, ” “Deaf Row, ” “I had not thought deaf had undone so many.” And for Mr. Lodge’s sad-sack,60-something narrator, Desmond Bates, who is losing his hearing, deafness is a kind of death — a symptom of mortality, a constant, embarrassing reminder of his aging body and diminishing hopes. After a couple of lackluster novels, Mr. Lodge is back to form: if “Deaf Sentence” lacks the uproarious academic satire found in “Changing Places” and “Small World, ” it nonetheless showcases the author’s ability to use sympathy and slapstick humor to create an appealingly hapless hero and to recount his adventures with Waugh-like verve. The humor is more muted here, not least because his hero is grappling with sobering matters like an ailing parent, a stale marriage and the frustrations and disappointments of advancing age, instead of the sort of career woes and sexual misalliances faced by Mr. Lodge’s earlier heroes. Indeed the novel occupies a similar place in Mr. Lodge’s career as “Exit, Ghost” does in Philip Roth’s, and “Villages” does in John Updike’s: the book is a veteran novelist’s meditation on aging and death and the diminution of youthful dreams.
10/10/08
poem by Gershon Hepner
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It sets its face rightfully against the doctrines of the Anarchist and the Communist, who seek to solve the social problems not by patient endeavor, but by brutal destruction.
quote by Henry Cabot Lodge
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