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WOODCRAFT
Its Makers, Its Triumphs and a
Prophecy of Its Death
BY

COL. W. J. SIMMONS, V. D. M.
Lecturer, Author and Fraternalist
ATLANTA, GA.

“The Only Original Rhode Island Red.”

COPYRIGHT 1917
BY W. J. SIMMONS
ATLANTA. GA.

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“THE MAKERS OF WOODCRAFT.”
“Deputies of the Woodmen of the World.”
By Col. W. J. Simmons, V. D. M.
Under the banner of your “chosen craft”
The sign of the Stump, Axe and Dove,
Marshaled 'gainst the hosts of greed and graft,
Impelled by fraternal love.
Go faithful soldiers of a noble cause,
Strive on with good might and main;
In your laudable mission cease nor pause,
For shadows, sunshine nor rain.
Your mission is holy, your cause is just,
Humanity needs your aid;
To you is committed a sacred trust,
Forward! and be not afraid.
Hear you the groans of the grief-stricken wife,
See how bold her tears are pouring;
Hungry, her child calls for the “staff of life;”
Men pass—their distress ignoring.
Many are the homes on the mountain's side,
Many in the plains and valleys,
Many the homes on the city's streets wide
Many in the narrow alleys—
That need you and your aid—your priceless boon
Of sure, easy protection
For no one knows how late or how soon
Death will reap his election.
Go! protect those homes from the grim wolf's fangs
Save the children's gleeful laughter;
Go! shield the mother from the awful pangs
Of want, cruel Death's disaster.
You are the messengers of the God of peace
To relieve poverty's distress,
And to guard the home 'gainst sorrow's increase,
To comfort, brighten and to bless.
Catch the vision of your mission 'mong men,
Small men may taunt in derision;
In the greatness of your work be bold; then
Be true to your heavenly vision.
Let the henchman of mercenary greed
Knock just as much as he may,
But go you to the man who stands in need—
Tell HIM what you have to say:
Tell him you're one of Fraternity's band,
Not an agent of Greed and Graft;
That you extend to him a helping hand,
The boon of “‘Perfected Woodcraft.”
Teach your fellows that it is wrong to hate,
That to love is better by far;
Draw them into our fold ere it is too late—
The blest fold of L. H. & R.

© CI.A 45626
FEB -91917


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Valiant workers in a God-blessed cause,
Nobler souls were never born;
Go forth in earnest, without let or pause,
Heedless of the small man's scorn.
Stand true to your craft and your noble work—
Regard not those who may flout you;
Of your importance with some, doubts may lurk,
But your craft would die without you.
Your mission embraces no narrow scope,
Use well your full ability,
For you are your Orders' principal hope
Of its future stability.
Yours is a service of paramount good;
Your realm—the field fraternal;
Fight a faithful fight for man's brotherhood,
Your reward—joy eternal.
For, when you shall take your eternal flight,
As out goes your lifes' vital fire,
God's angels will unlock the bars of night,
His voice will call: “Come up higher.”
Dedicated to the man who has made Woodcraft what it is today and who will make it what it will be in the future—the faithful, intelligent, honorable, persistent “Deputy.” “Honor to whom honor is due.”
He of all men should wear the laurels for the achievements we've attained,
For he fought the fight without cessation and won the glory we have gained,
And in the future's toilsome conflicts he will constantly be hurl'd
And will then beget for Woodcraft the hearty plaudits of the world.
But, if he should leave the conflict, then soon our banner would be furl'd
And we'd soon attend the funeral of the Woodmen of the World
Then towards our noble Order the curse of centuries would be hurl'd
And Fraternity's greatest beacon would go out, not being fed;
The great light of the poor man's comfort would be darkened and dead
And the contempt of the ages upon our honor would be spread
And the vilest maledictions upon our memory would be said.
Henceforth the cries of countless children would go unheeded for bread
And countless widowed mothers would saddened go with drooping head.
“Mark you well the walls of Woodcraft and every man is a brick.”
Atlanta, Ga.
April 7th, 1915.


BATTLE HYMN OF WOODCRAFT.
(Sung to the tune of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”)
Hark! I hear the woodmen coming now a mighty million strong
With their sturdy axes humming, what a great fraternal throng!
And I hear the music welling of their stirring conquest song
Woodcraft is marching on.
Refrain:
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Woodcraft is marching on.

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Marching on to greater vic-to-ry the sturdy woodmen go
With hearts for home and loved ones and a purpose white as snow,
They are marching, growing, gaining vict'ry over every foe,
Woodcraft is marching on.
Its arms are not for slaughter on the field of gory strife
But to battle off the enemies that plague the poor man's life
And to shield his home and loved ones when the shades of death are rife
Woodcraft is marching on.
I have seen the shadows gather and the tears begin to pour,
Death had claimed its victim for that undiscovered shore;
But Woodcraft brought protection, drove the grim wolf from the door,
Woodcraft is marching on.
I have journey'd through the city of the sacred, slumb'ring dead
And beheld the Woodmen Monument with stately sov'reign head,
And it spoke in silent eloquence, and this is what it said:
“Woodcraft is marching on.”
What a great and noble event when that banner was unfur'ld,
The banner of the woodmen, valiant Woodmen of the World;
What a blessing, double blessing to the poor man's home was hurl'd,
Woodcraft is marching on.
Woodcraft has blessed its millions with fraternity complete,
It's calling now for valiant men to spread its gospel sweet;
Oh! be swift my soul to answer; oh, be jubilant my feet!
Woodcraft is marching on.
Written July 22nd, 1913, and very respectfully dedicated to Hon. Joseph Cullen Root, Sovereign Commander, Father and Founder of all Woodcraft.


WHEN THE WOODMEN OF THE WORLD WILL BE DEAD.
(A Prophecy.)
By Col. W. J. Simmons, V. D. M.
When the lion eats grass like an ox
And the grub-worm swallows the whale,
When the terrapin knits woolen socks
And the hare is outrun by the snail,
When the tail of the 'possum grows hair
And butterflies dwell in the sea,
When the raccoon's tail becomes bare
And the man enjoys the company of the flea.
When serpents walk upright like men
And doodle-bugs travel like frogs,
When the grasshopper feeds on the hen
And feathers are found on hogs,
When the monkey ceases to swing by his tail
And the baboon crawls on his back,
When the waters of the oceans shall fail
And Gibraltar is carried in a sack.
When Thomas-cats swim in the air
And elephants roost upon trees,
When insects in summer are rare
And snuff never makes people sneeze.
When the American eagle shall change
And become a wabbling canary in a cage,
When dogs no longer have mange
And old maids are not ashamed of their age,
When fish creep over dry land
And mules on bicycles ride,
(Over)
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When foxes lay eggs in the sand
And women in dress takes no pride.
When the devil has become a real saint
And cynics no longer shall scorn,
When society women no longer use paint
And boy babies cease to be born.
When the flowers shall die from the earth
And the stars shall cease to shine,
When grave yards become theatres of mirth
And the Hebrew shall feast upon swine.
When the darkey no longer sees ghosts
And his hair is minus of the kink,
When the hobo refuses beef roasts
And the human mind ceases to think.
When the hobo refuses roasts
And the human ceases to think,
When the pickaninny refuses his melon
And the North Pole is a banana patch,
When a murderer is no longer a felon
And the hungry chicks for worms will not scratch.
When the rivers up stream shall flow
And ice from the factory will be hot,
When hades shall be smothered with snow
And thieves shall cease to plot.
When the mole ceases to burrow into the ground
And cat-fish grows fur like minks,
When a sphere is other than round
And gophers play golf at the links.
When the Dutchman no longer drinks beer
And girls get to preaching on time,
When the billy-goat butts from the rear
And treason is no longer a crime.
When the humming-bird brays like an ass
And Limburger smells like cologne,
When the plow points are made out of glass
And the hearts of Americans are stone.
When gold loses its value as cash
And whiskey no longer makes drunk,
When diamonds are discarded as trash
And radium regarded as junk.
When fire no longer will burn
And water ceases to make wet,
When courting couples all taffy shall spurn
And the sun refuses to set.
When the clouds no longer gives rain
And toads have wings like bats,
When colic no longer gives pain
And hoofs are found on rats.
When dollars shall drop from the sky
And no crime a man's mother-in-law to kill,
When it is no longer a sin to lie
And the tongue of the tattler is still.
When the Irishman shall lose his native wit
And gone his appetite for ale,
When giraffs in rocking chairs shall sit
And the June-bug whistles like a quail.
When peanuts grow on a Chinaman's head
And wool on a hydraulic ram,
THEN the Woodmen of the World will be DEAD
And the country won't be worth a —.

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BENNETT PRINTING HOUSE
ATLANTA



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