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The Old Tyler

God bless the Old Tyler! how long he has trudged,
Through sunshine and storm, with his summonses due!
No pain nor fatigue the Old Tyler has grudged
To serve the great Order, Freemasons, and you.

God bless the Old Tyler! how oft he has led
The funeral procession from Lodge door to grave!
How grandly his weapon has guarded the dead
To their last quiet home where the Acacia boughs wave.

God bless the Old Tyler! how oft he has knocked,
When, vigilant, strangers craved welcome and rest!
How widely your portals, though guarded and locked,
Have swung to the signal the Tyler knows best!

There's a Lodge where the door is not guarded nor tyled,
There's a Land without graves, without mourners or sin,
There's a Master most gracious, paternal and mild,
And he waits the Old Tyler, and bids him come in!

And there the Old Tyler, no longer outside, -
No longer with weapon of war in his hand, -
A glorified spirit, shall grandly abide
And close by the Master, high honored, shall stand.
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