OXXIX. MOST EXCELLENT MASTER'S

SONG.

All hail to the morning
That bids us rejoice;
The Temple's completed,
Exult high each voice;
The cape-stone is finished,
Our labour is o'er;
The sound of the Gavel
Shall hail us no more.

To the power Almighty, who ever has guided
The tribes of old Israel, exalting their fame,
To Him who hath governed our hearts undivided,
Let's send forth our voices, to praise his great

name.

Companions, assemble
On this joyful day,
(The occasion is glorious)
The key-stone to lay;
Fulfilled is the promise

By the Ancient of Days,
To bring forth the cape-stone,
With shouting and praise.

There's no more occasion for Level or Plumb-line,
For Trowel or Gavel, for Compass or Square;
Our works are completed, the ark safely seated,
And we shall be greeted as workmen most rare.

Now those that are worthy,
Our toils who have shar'd,
And prov'd themselves faithful,
Shall meet their reward.

Their virtue and knowledge,

Industry and skill,

Have our approbation,

Have gain'd our good will.

We accept and receive them Most Excellent Masters,

Invested with honours, and power to preside; Among worthy Craftsmen, wherever assembled, The knowledge of Masons to spread far and wide.

Almighty Jehovah,

Descend now, and fill
This Lodge with thy glory,
Our hearts with good will!
Preside at our meetings,
Assist us to find

True pleasure in teaching
Good will to mankind.

Thy wisdom inspired the great Institution,
Thy strength shall support it till nature expire;
And when the creation shall fall into ruin,

Its beauty shall rise, through the midst of the

fire!

CXXX, SUPER-EXCELLENT MASTER'S.
By Babel's streams we sat and wept,
When Zion bade our sorrows flow,
And hopes on lofty willows slept,

That near these distant waters grow.
The willows high, the waters clear,
Behold our toils and sorrows there.
The cruel foe that captive led

Our nation from their native soil;
The tyrant foe by which we bled
Requires a song as well as toil.
Come with a song, your sorrows cheer,
A song that Zion loves to hear.
How can we, cruel Tyrants! raise
A song on such a distant shore?
If I forget my Zion's praise,

May my right hand assume no more

To strike the silver sounding string,
And thence the slumbering music bring.
If I forget that happy home,

May perjured tongue forget to move,
My eyes go out in endless gloom,

My joys, my rapture and my love. No revel grief my mind can share, For Zion reigns unrivalled there. Remember, Lord, that haughty foe, When conquered Zion droop'd her head, Who, laughing at our deepest woe, Thus to our tears and sorrows said: From its proud height degrade her wall, Destroy her towers, and ruin all! Thou, Babel's grasping cruel race, With pity let your hearts be seis'd, And beaming smiles adorn your face, From cruelty your mind be eased. With pity hear our melting moan, Behold our blood stains every stone!

CXXXII. RED CROSS SONG.

The King was on the throne,
The Chaldees in the hall,
A thousand bright lamps shone
On that high festival.
A thousand cups of gold,

By Judah deemed divine,
Jehovah's vessels, hold

The Godless heathens' wine.

In that same hour and hall
The fingers of a hand
Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand
The fingers of a man,
A solitary hand

Along the letters ran,

And traced them like a wand.
The Monarch saw and shook,
And bade no more rejoice,
All bloodless wax'd his look,
And tremulous his voice:
Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear
Which marr'd our royal mirth.
Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they had no skill,
And the unknown letters stood
Untold and awful still;
And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore,
But now they were not sage,
They saw, but knew no more.

A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the King's command,
He saw that writing's truth,

The lamps around were bright,
The prophecy in view,
He read it on that night,
The morning found it true,

Belshazar's grave is made,
His kingdom pass'd away,
He's in the balance weigh'd
To light and worthless clay,
The shroud his robe of state,
His canopy the stone,
The Medes are at his gate,

The Persian on his throne.

CXXXIII. THE RED-CROSS FLAG.

Unfurl that glorious banner, fling forth its glittering folds,

And let it float, like a silver cloud, above our mighty holds!

Above our sea-girt fortresses that crown each rocky steep,

And frown like haughty giants on the vexed and surging deep;

Above our white-sail'd thunderers-above that gallant host,

Who never raised the craven cry-" Retreat, for all is lost!"

Yes, proudly let the red-cross float o'er all the pleasant land,

And be that silvery pennon seen on every foreign strand;

No taint upon its sunny folds, no stain upon its

fame,

Our Red Cross flag unsullied flies, as spotless

as our name,

James Smith, Castle Lodge.