The Fletcher Clan
Hurrah for the Fletcher Clan!
The original makers of arrows,
And for Robert from whom we began,
For there's always a very first man
To whom one's ancestry narrows.
The Fletchers were heroes of war
In the days of dim tradition,
Caring naught whom their arrows were for,
And they probably worshipped Thor
As they stoutly fulfilled their mission.
But the Robert who came to this land
Was a peaceful and pious old Pilgrim,
And he was one of the band
By whom fair Concord was planned
When the primitive forests were still grim.
I wonder what kind of a fellow
This ultra-great-grandsire of ours was:
If his hair was black or corn-yellow,
If his temper was rigid or mellow
And what the trend of his powers was.
He probably liked to discuss
On politics, morals, theology;
For I have discovered in us
A similar habit which thus
Requires no special apology.
He may have been obstinate also
(Sometimes an excellent quality;
Persistency men always call so).
Men rise, as likewise they fall so;
I hope he knew something of jollity.
He was honest like all that community,
Paid every note at maturity,
Loved justice, found comfort in unity,
Made the most of each opportunity
And believed in virtue and purity.
He must have been handsome and dignified,
Was fond of fair ladies society,
His heard being easily ignified;
Good traits that are frequently signified
In many of us—with propriety.
I wonder, too, what his wife was,
And how he wooed her and won her,
And what their habit of life was
(In Concord of course there no strife was!)
Her tongue perchance was a runner.
How proud they would feel to be here now
And witness this wondrous assembly.
Oh, Robert and—Susan?—appear now,
Come and share in our festival cheer now.
I reckon your limbs would be trembly!
To think of the wise and the witty,
The rich and the grand and the famous,
From hamlet, farm, village and city,
Men elegant, ladies, yes, pretty,
John, Stoughton, Jane, William, Ruth, Amos!
It is a most marvellous story:
One pair's branching out in descendants,
The weaving a name in a glory,
Going back to antiquity hoary
And dazzling with complex resplendence.
And so, Father Robert, we're proud of you,
A worthy old sire to look back to,
And proud of the whole worthy crowd of you,
Who trafficked, who preached and who plowed of you,
For whatever you did you'd the knack to.
Even we who bear strange appellations
Claim the tie by consanguinity;
Our mothers make us relations
And we take our relative stations
By love and blood and affinity.
So hurrah for the Fletcher Clan!
May it ever prosper and flourish,
May it lead in humanity's van,
Accomplishing all that men can
A noble nation to nourish!
The original makers of arrows,
And for Robert from whom we began,
For there's always a very first man
To whom one's ancestry narrows.
The Fletchers were heroes of war
In the days of dim tradition,
Caring naught whom their arrows were for,
And they probably worshipped Thor
As they stoutly fulfilled their mission.
But the Robert who came to this land
Was a peaceful and pious old Pilgrim,
And he was one of the band
By whom fair Concord was planned
When the primitive forests were still grim.
I wonder what kind of a fellow
This ultra-great-grandsire of ours was:
If his hair was black or corn-yellow,
If his temper was rigid or mellow
And what the trend of his powers was.
He probably liked to discuss
On politics, morals, theology;
For I have discovered in us
A similar habit which thus
Requires no special apology.
He may have been obstinate also
(Sometimes an excellent quality;
Persistency men always call so).
Men rise, as likewise they fall so;
I hope he knew something of jollity.
He was honest like all that community,
Paid every note at maturity,
Loved justice, found comfort in unity,
Made the most of each opportunity
And believed in virtue and purity.
He must have been handsome and dignified,
Was fond of fair ladies society,
His heard being easily ignified;
Good traits that are frequently signified
In many of us—with propriety.
I wonder, too, what his wife was,
And how he wooed her and won her,
And what their habit of life was
(In Concord of course there no strife was!)
Her tongue perchance was a runner.
How proud they would feel to be here now
And witness this wondrous assembly.
Oh, Robert and—Susan?—appear now,
Come and share in our festival cheer now.
I reckon your limbs would be trembly!
To think of the wise and the witty,
The rich and the grand and the famous,
From hamlet, farm, village and city,
Men elegant, ladies, yes, pretty,
John, Stoughton, Jane, William, Ruth, Amos!
It is a most marvellous story:
One pair's branching out in descendants,
The weaving a name in a glory,
Going back to antiquity hoary
And dazzling with complex resplendence.
And so, Father Robert, we're proud of you,
A worthy old sire to look back to,
And proud of the whole worthy crowd of you,
Who trafficked, who preached and who plowed of you,
For whatever you did you'd the knack to.
Even we who bear strange appellations
Claim the tie by consanguinity;
Our mothers make us relations
And we take our relative stations
By love and blood and affinity.
So hurrah for the Fletcher Clan!
May it ever prosper and flourish,
May it lead in humanity's van,
Accomplishing all that men can
A noble nation to nourish!
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