There is a poem in existence that is thought to be written by one of William's great grandsons.
My Great Grandad in days of yore,
O'er stepped old England's chalky shore,
And westward sailed across the blue,
His quest - to found a home anew.
For days and weeks he sailed the seas,
Through storms and fog and bergs that freeze,
And when at last he sighted land
He saw red cliffs of clay and sand.
He travelled on for many a mile
Until he found a pleasant isle,
And as the sun was going down
He some huts - now Charlottetown
He landed and went roving round
Until he accidentally found
A narrow path, a beaten track,
Where Indians oft went forth and back.
Next morning with his wife and sons
He sallied forth with bag and guns.
Their course, at first, due North the West,
Without a though of food or rest.
They travelled on and climbed a hill,
A mile beyond they found a rill.
They gathered boughs; a luncheon spread,
Of which they ate and rose full fed.
The Grandsire then went out to look,
Left wife and children by the brook,
He placed a gun on his left arm,
In case a bear might do him harm.
The land was covered thick with trees
With branches waving in the breeze,
And as he travelled onward still,
Saw plots of land that he could till.
He travelled on Surveyor like,
To see what riches he might strike,
And Southward further down the rill
He came upon an old French mill.
It's sagging sides were tumbling down
And slowly sank in soil so brown.
In Father's time the stones were there,
One thousand pounds so red and bare.
But in my time no trace was seen
To show the French once there had been.
Returning to his family then
He quickly found them in the glen.
He told them all he had seen alone
And in the end said, "This is home".
A rude camp served them day by day.
They cut and hewed and worked away,
And soon upon that spot there stood
A small log cabin, trim and good.
The place for it was near the road
Where French and Indians often trod,
And near it later was the site
Where I began to read and write.
The father took his hoe and spade
And soon a garden plot was made.
He fenced it round with lumber high,
The old slab fence first caught my eye.
He planted trees beneath whose shade,
Where as a boy I often played.
The years rolled on, his sons matured
And some to distant lands were lured.
Theophilus to Crapaud went,
But Gersham seemed on roving bent,
To far New Zealand made his way
And was not heard of in my day.
I do not know what him befell,
That no one knows and none can tell.
Even in Australia's wide domain
Strait, isle and port all bear his name.
Surveyor Owen had to till
One hundred acres on the hill.
My grandsire Otto had as balm
Two hundred acres near the dam.
To Rachel 50 in her plot,
Which later on my father bought,
Such is the story of this vale
In olden times called Curtisdale.
It would be great to know how much of the poem is factual and also who wrote it.