Robert Burns

Ye Sons of Old Killie. A Masonic Song

YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie,
  To follow the noble vocation;
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another
  To sit in that honoured station.
I’ve little to say, but only to pray,
  As praying’s the ton of your fashion;
A prayer from, the Muse you well may excuse,
  ‘Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o’er the wind and the tide,
  Who marked each element’s border;
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim,
  Whose sovereign statute is order;
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention
  Or withered envy ne’er enter;
May secrecy round be the mystical bound,
  And brotherly love be the centre!