Hoggard Family

...from the private collection of the Hoggard family,
courtesy of Lisa Gregg Hoggard Gile and Rhonda G Hoggard

"My Love of Ancestry"
by Richmond Echles Hoggard (1872-?)

I want to state to you, my friend, before this tale I now begin, 'Tis not a boasted pedigree, but tracing of ancestral tree. I boast not of a princely blood from Caesar down to Robin Hood; I sprang not from a Viking bold -- claim no relation to tadpole. My father's line I now will state, and Mother's later will relate. My father was the sixth of an eleven; my mother was the sixth of seven. I mention this to make my rhyme, will not repeat in after time. William Hoggard was the name, who never sought for worldly fame. But honesty and truth had he, true type of our ancestral tree. And Grandsire Hoggard, so it seems, played the fife at New Orleans For Andrew Jackson in the ranks when he so hard the British spanked. And this my father loved to tell, how Grandsire Hoggard fifed so well. Grandsire married an Irish girl whose rosy cheeks red banners furled. Sallie Fletcher was her name, and to them eleven children came; My father, the last of all the lot to locate in the graveyard plot. My great Grandsire, who crossed the ocean, left Scotland's shores with no emotion. And he would boast of his Grandsire whom William Wallace made Esquire. How he'd list to the Wallace horn, and met him in the white hawthorn. And fought with the Bruce at Brannocks Burn and never once his charger turned. I have no doubt being made Esquire caused my good ancestor to aspire. I only tell it word for word, and speak from Father who had heard These hearthstone tales from father to son, told at night when day was done. And they believed, as I believe, these tales were meant not to deceive. And if perchance of this red blood there's some in me -- ah, well and good! The first child to my parents came, in love was christened Cynthia Jane. She lived to be almost forescore, but she is with us no, no more. Dear gentle soul, I hope anon to meet her out somewhere beyond. The second child was Brother Jim; oh, how it hurts to speak of him. I saw him by an accident crushed, broken on hard cement. That brother's heart that knew no fear, in leaving made the world so drear. And fireside is not a home 'til we again together roam. In boyhood days o'er the vale and hill; in woodland shade and babbling rill, Each sought the other's wish to fill, and spoke no word our hearts to chill. Wade Hampton was the third to come to bless our parents' happy home. He made but few mistakes and slips, and ne'er a lie escaped his lips. And now he's getting old and gray, life's sands are drifting fast away. Perhaps he'll be out there beyond to bid me welcome when I come. Matilda Ellen, now I wonder what she is doing somewhere out yonder. It was her lot to be the fourth; she was a jewel of great worth. And many virtues great had she, unbounded love and charity. And charity, that thing so dear, will make an entrance for her there. The next was Mary Catherine, and heaven and earth now lie between. Our parting filled our hearts with woe; she was the best of Earth I know. The wee lamb of our father's heart, and she had chose the better part To help and serve humanity; as Mary of old, also was she. Then Zachariah (William) was next to come and add the sixth verse to my song. But William Zach is not his name, he says -- just 'Bud' is all he claims. We, down life's road, have strayed together, and found some foul, some pleasant weather. I hope to journey to the end hand in hand, as life began. But one thing, twixt me and you, if he gets in, I'll be there, too. What can I say of Calvin P -- the lucky seventh 'twas his to be. He grew to manhood strong and bold, with frame of steel and heart of gold. A square deal gives to all the world; he scorns to look where shame's unfurled. A money maker he has been -- go broke, get up and make again. And when old death his door breaks in, he'll say, "You're welcome, come in, old friend." And when my nearer brother came, he was for Andrew Jackson named. He was the eighth and nearest me -- my closest comrade, don't you see. Death cut him down in early youth; he was a Scottish lad, in truth. He lives within my memory still, and holds a place that none can fill. Long years have passed away and gone, and yet those days I think upon. We played by brooks and fields of clover, Could I but live those old days over! He spun my tops and made my toys, kept guard o'er me in childhood joys. And now I gave you all the line except myself -- I'm number nine. My mother called my Dickey Dear, but that loved name no more I hear. Now Richmond is my Christian name, but I to merit lay no claim, For I into this world was sent, a creature of environment. But show to me the man I hate or the woman I love -- but I won't prate. But place me in a friendlier clime and other things than making rhyme, I'll prove I have my grandsire's blood; though right, should bar the way to God. Whoever reads this little rhyme may think perhaps it's wasted time. I wrote it for my brothers three, and not for all the world to see. I close it with a song for her -- the one on earth I held most dear, My Mother (speak her name gently), I loved her reverently, intensely.

in McAllen, Texas...March 1926