Songs, Song

When the Sun from the East first salutes mortal eyes, And the sky-lark melodiously bids us arise; With our hearts full of joy, we the summons obey, Straight repair to our work, and to moisten our clay. On the trassel our Master draws angles and lines, There with freedom and fervency forms his designs; Not a picture on earth is so lovely to view, All his lines are so perfect, his angles so true. In the west see the Wardens submissively stand, The Master to aid, and obey his command; The intent of his signals we perfectly know, And we ne'er take offence when he gives us a blow. In the lodge, sloth and dulness we always avoid, Fellow-crafts and apprentices all are employ'd: Perfect ashlers some finish, some make the rough plain, All are pleas'd with their work, and are pleas'd with their gain. When my Master I've serv'd seven years, perhaps more, Some secrets he'll tell me I ne'er knew before; In my bosom I'll keep them as long as I live, And pursue the directions his wisdom shall give. I'll attend to his call both by night and by day, It is his to command, and 'tis mine to obey; Whensoe'er we are met, I'll attend to his nod, And I'll work till high twelve, then I'll lay down my hod.