New York Dispatch

Ho! gather around me, my brethren true,

Whose eyes have beheld the light,

And help me to carry my chorus through,

While I sing of a sword of might

That guards our labors in every land

From the line to either pole,

While our precepts grand, which forever shall stand,

Are cementing soul and soul.

So hurrah for the tiler's sword!

Hurrah for the tiler's sword!

The craftsman's pain would be all in vain,

Were it not for the tiler's sword!

The Master sits on his Eastern throne,

And a well-beloved brother is he;

And he watches our work as we pile on the stone

For the Temple of Masonry.

And long may the hat be seen on high,

And long may he trace on the board;

But his labors are vain if he cannot rely

On the tiler's guardian sword.

So hurrah for the tiler's sword, &c.

And the Wardens, too, are a worthy pair,

Who lighten the Master's toil;

May they each have a share, enough and to spare,

Of the corn, the wine, and the oil!

But the wages of the craft would never be paid,

And never in the lodge be stored.

Without the aid of that trusty blade,

The tiler's gleaming sword.

So hurrah for the tiler's sword, &c.

And so with the brethren all around-

The great as well as the small-

Wherever the gavels in harmony sound,

It shields and protects them all;

And when they receive, at fate's behest,

The summons which can never be ignored,

They are led to their rest, in their mother's breast,

By the tiler's guiding sword!

So hurrah for the tiler's sword. &c.