The sound of a mournful strain,
Like a minor chord in music,
A sweet but sad refrain;
It rose on the heated air,
Like a mourner's earnest plea,
"Our poor and penniless brethren
Dispersed over land and sea."

Poor and penniless brethren
Scattered over the world,
Want and misfortune and woe
Round them fierce darts have hurled;
Wandering alone upon mountains,
Sick and fainting and cold,
Lying heart-broken in prisons,
Chained in an enemy's hold.

Dying in fields of combat,
With none to answer back
The masonic sign of distress,
Left on the battle's track.
Shipwrecked in foaming waters,
Clinging to broken spars,
Dying, this night of St. John,
Mid the ocean and the stars.

Others with hunger faint--we
Taste these rich and varied meats--
Oppression gives them no home
But dark and desolate streets.