Such ancestors to me are dear.

[43]

A mighty hero—none seems greater—

Whether Psalm-singer, or bear-baiter,

First of my name to reach the strand,

Of this almost unpeopled land.

He may have been a simple yeoman,

Brave was he as the bravest Roman.

At naught he quailed, his heart was stout,

When he for the New World set out.

His boat was, on the untracked ocean,

No luxuries,—though I've a notion

Billows were just as high as now,

While Danger sat upon the prow.

He hardly knew when waves he tossed on

By merely murmuring, "Home is Boston."

Yet he had left his all behind

In the new world his all to find.

"R-e-e-d"—"e-i"—"e-a,"

Just how we spell it need not matter.

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