From the Rock Island Argus, November 21, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.
I have cousins in Missouri
I have uncles in New York
I have sisters in Chicago
And an aunt who lives in Cork
Second cousins in Australia
And in any other place
That offhand you might mention.
My, but we’re a scattered race!
When my father was a youngster
In a little Scottish town
He was blessed with several brothers—
Eight it was; I marked it down—
And about as many sisters—
Ten I think I heard him say—
And when they had grown and married
Each one went a different way.
And they had—how many children?
Goodness knows, for I do not
As I never took a census
But it must have been a lot.
And the children, grown to manhood
As myself, for time has flown
And we all are growing ancient,
Must have children of their own.
So the stock is widely scattered
From the palm tree to the pine
Nearly every state and country
Has some relative of mine.
And with almost every family
It’s the same old tale again,
For the world is getting ready
For a common race of men.