THROUGH twelve stout¹ generations New England blood I boast； The stubborn pastures bred them, The grim, uncordial coast, Sedate² and proud old cities,—— Loved well enough by me, Then how should I be yearning³ To scour⁴ the earth and sea. Each of my Yankee forbears Wed⁵ a New England mate： They dwelt and did and died here, Nor glimpsed a rosier⁶ fate. My clan⁷ endured their kindred； But foreigners they loathed⁸, And wandering folk, and minstrels, And gypsies motley-clothed. Then why do patches please me, Fantastic, wild array？ Why have I vagrant⁹ fancies For lads from far away. My folk were godly Churchmen,—— Or paced in Elders' weeds； But all were grave and pious¹⁰ And hated heathen creeds¹¹. Then why are Thor and Wotan To dread¹² forces still？ Why does my heart go questing For Pan beyond the hill？ My people clutched at freedom.—— Though others' wills they chained,

    - But made the Law and kept it,—— And Beauty, they restrained. Then why am I a rebel To laws of rule and square？ Why would I dream and dally¹³, Or, reckless, do and dare？ O righteous, solemn Grandsires, O dames¹⁴, correct and mild, Who bred me of your virtues¹⁵！ Whence comes this changing child？-The thirteenth generation,—— Unlucky number this！—— My grandma loved a Pirate, And all my faults are his！ A gallant¹⁶, ruffled¹⁷ rover, With beauty-loving eye, He swept Colonial waters Of coarser, bloodier¹⁸ fry. He waved his hat to danger, At Law he shook his fist. Ah, merrily he plundered¹⁹, He sang and fought and kissed！ Though none have found his treasure, And none his part would take,

    - I bless that thirteenth lady Who chose him for my sake！ ABBIE FARWELL BROWN