Splinters an' Shavin's fro' a Carpenter's Bench

"I remember one of his songs, in which the children of a brother of the mystic tie are described as going about the house singing 'My daddy's a freemason, an we needa' fear the de'il'"

— Edwin Vaugh

1

Ther is a relic aw'd possess,
It's promised me, aw know,
Un' wat it is yo' couldna' guess —
It's mine when th' reight aw show.
This symbol, sacred unto me,
This sign of ancient lore,
A little blue-edged apron, see,
'Ut wonst mi father wore.

2

These aprons han bin worn, aw'm towd,
Bi generations three;
Mi forefathers, I' Th' days ov owd,
Will th' forth be found in me?
Aw hope it may, but who can tell,
What ther may be in store?
Ther's none would treasure it loike me,
that "brat" mi father wore.

3

Oft have aw seen him don it on,
Un buckle it wi' pride;
Un' oh! aw long to be a mon,
But aw mi time mun bide.
May aw be found, when th' time comes reawnd,
True, solid to the core.
That aw may be a credit seawnd,
To th' apron that he wore.

4

It's tothry year, aw know it is,
That it's bin lyin by,
But then it conno' get amiss,
If kept secure and dry.
Un' th' time may come before so long,
When 'twill be seen wonst more,
Un' worn wi' reverence as strong,
As when bi "Dad" 'twur wore.

5

May there be always found, intact,
This venerable craft,
Till th' universe. at th' crack o' doom,
Shall split fro' "fore to aft,"
Un' then each true an honest chip,
Shall reap reward galore,
Un' praises flow fro' heart an' lip,
For th' apro that he wore.

6

Aw wouldna' seek to rend the veil,
Until the proper time,
Nor try that barrier to scale,
Which Nothing con begrime;
But when I leave this earthly ship,
For the "eternal shore,"
Aw'd fain return mi father's grip,
Wi' th' apron that he wore.

* * *

Aw'm Bound to Wear That Apron Soon

"Ye who are Masons here could name a time."

— Ben Brierley

1

The sands of time, run through life's glass
Kind hands, and willing heart's prepare;
The road along which I must pass,
To gain the right, that badge to wear;
Yet! proudly, to the for, I look,
Oh! dub me not a selfish loon;
Tho' now, like an unopen'd book
Aw'm bound to wear that apron soon.

2

Surely 'tis well, it must be so,
Time-honour'd craft, for ages past;
Sound to the core, all men must know,
Were that not so, how could it last
'Tis sure! as when the sun is gone,
And in his track sail's mistress moon;
Almighty God; lead Thou me on —
Aw'm bound to wear that apron soon.

3

Here on the threshold now i stand;
A climax in my history,
Ere' entering the Sublime, grand;
The ancient realms of mystery.
Awaiting for the summons, when
I shall obtain that priceless boon,
And stand a man, 'midst other men;
Aw'm bound to wear that apron soon.

4

Plain, initial'd is my name,
No gilded crest adorns my scrip;
A stranger, quite unknown to fame,
I venture on my trial trip;
In whom, then, can I put my trust,
In He, who sits enthroned aboon;
His guidance now I ask, I must —
Aw'n bound to wear that apron soon.

5

In meek obedience, I wait —
My time to learn what is concealed;
To leave my now be-darken'd state,
When, what lies hidden' is revealed;
"Wat's good for one, is good for all,"
Where hearts and minds are well in tune;
I'm waiting now the Master's call,
Aw'm bound to wear that apron soon.

* * *

My Apron, My Own!

"Then here's to the craft that we love,
its harmony, truth, and goodwill;
And here's to the Mason whose heart
Is true to the brotherhood still,"

— R. R. Bealey

1

My little blue-edged apron
When fost aw gazed on thee
Thour'n worn bi one whose passed away,
Whose memory's dear to me.
For monny a year he donn'd thee on,
Wi' rev'rance fondly shown;
Un' noaw he's done wi' thee theau art
My apron, my own.

2

Symbol of that fraternity
To which aw' neaw belong,
Oh, keep me to its tenets true,
In heart, in hand, in tongue.
May theau bi worn wi' love and pride
Wherw'er aw may be thrown,
An' each to each a credit prove,
My Apron, my own.

3

Emblem of Unity an' love.
Friendship true an' sincere,
Badge of equality an' worth
To every Mason dear;
Worn but in harmony an peace,
Wheer discord is unknown;
Token of right, solidity,
My apron, my own.

4

My cherished little treasure, then,
Aw'll wear thee while aw may;
In meek obedience aw'll work,
All homage due aw'll pay.
Be he who rules of humble sphere,
Or monarch from his throne,
Thy wearers are all one to me,
My apron, my own.

* * *

Fourteen = Seventy = Three

"We meet here as brethren and friends,
And aye with each other agree;
Bound close by mystical tie
No rancour among us can be."

— R. R. Bealey

1

My mother lives up Merton road;
Her heawse is on the square,
Her maxim is to learn her lads,
To play loif's game eawt fair;
Her sons are gradely lads, yo' known,
Accepted, aye, an' free;
An' th' number on my mother's door
Is fourteen-seventy-three.

2

Th' carpet up' o' th'floor, aw'm sure,
It cost full monny a peawnd;
Ther's workin'-tools an diagrams,
Lie strewn abeawt o'reawnd;
Ther' is no place aw know on, neaw,
Wheer aw would sooner be;
An' awlus loike t' spend a neet,
At fourteen-seventy-three.

3

Her lads will never goo astray,
Or even get askew;
Hoo winna let 'em goo th' wrong road,
But keep 'em straight an' true;
An' if they'll but do as ther'n towd,
A credit seawnd they'll be
To o' ther brethren thro' the land
An fourteen-seventy-three.

4

In gooin' to th' "Owd Woman's" heawse,
Ther's awlus summat t' learn;
Each lad has for t' behave hissel',
An' nobbut spake I, turn,
Then rise, my brothers, on yo're pins,
An drink this toast wi' me;
The best ov o' good wishes, aye,
To fourteen-seventy-three.