The Mystic Band Poem by Holman Francis Day

I've joined the orders that came our way,
- Been sort of a 'jiner,' as one would say, -
And I've bucked the goat, and trudged the sands,
And taken the oaths in most secret bands,
Till now at last I seldom slip
On test or password, sign or grip.
And every day when I walk the street
I give the signs to the men I meet.
There's the S. of T. and the K. of P.
And the League of the Order of Liberty;
Masons and Odd Fellows string along,
Thicker than flies in the moving throng.
Till it seems that every fellow could
Give you a sign of a brotherhood.
Oh, I like to meet them, every one,
From the Daughter of Peace to the Son of a Gun.
But I can't quite feel the same delight
As I used to when, some summer night,
I'd take a few of the high degrees
In the O.K.K.B.W.P's.

We had not lodge-room with locks and bar -
Our hall was the dome 'neath the winking stars;
No lofty dias and tufted throne,
No crown or symbol or altar stone,
No velvet carpets or flashing lights
Were needed there in those old-time rites;
There was only the light from some honest eyes
Up-raised to the velvet evening skies;
And the only crown was the flower wreath
Set light on the curling locks beneath,
And the mystic grip was the tender squeeze
Of our hands as we roamed past the orchard trees;
And the head of the lodge was an elfin chap
With roses heaped in his dimpled lap.
With wings a-spread and his locks a-blow,
And the wand of his office a silver bow.
He welcomed the timid neophytes.
And into the hearts of his pure delights
He led each happy candidate
Who breathed Love's password at the gate,
And happy he who sought degrees
In the O.K.K.B.W.P's.

'Tis just a page from the dear conceit
That makes the volume of school life sweet;
A bit of lust from the callow days
When we bashfully trudged the self-same ways
As the girls from the evening meeting took,
And we carried their capes and the singing-book. -
Sauntered along the dim old lanes
With chirrup and chatter and gay refrains,
Shouting 'Good-nights' as here and there,
Pausing by gate or stile, a pair
Loitered a bit on the threshold's stone
For a sweet and fond good-night of their own.
It irks me, my friend, that I must profane
The oath of the order and voice that chain
Of mystic letters: yet 'twere not kind
To take you thus far and leave you blind.
And I'll whisper, you know, just heart to heart,
'Twas 'One Kind Kiss Before We Part,'
The mystic grip was a warm hand-press,
The sign and the test a swift caress,
And the dearest and sweetest of Used-to-be's
Were the O.K.K.B.W.P.'s.