Early Years, written by my granddad.

This was Granddad Ranton’s recollections of his early life, and finally how he saw his later life unfold, a pretty harsh, but probably not uncommon, tale of life in the 1800s and early 1900s told with rare skill.

I’m only sorry I did not get the chance to know him; he died when
I was only a 1 year old child.

Poem by Hugh Ranton (1865-1937) about his early life, as remembered by his daughter Pearl McKinley (Auntie Pearl).

Early Years.

I was there, I was with him,

From the moment he was born,

And often in his little cradle bed,

I’ve seen his mother kiss him, hug him,

Clasp him to her breast,

Stroke his darling little dark brown curly head.

Through the early years that followed,

For our hearts they beat as one,

I was with him through his little joys and cares,

When he kissed his mother’s forehead,

Icy, pallid, still in death,

With my darling little comrade, I was there.

Dear reader, pause a moment,

For to one it means so much,

He will miss her loving kisses,

Seek in vain her gentle touch.

Bereft of home and Mother, thrown upon a world of care.

Through it all, gentle reader, I’ll be there.

Let us skip the months that followed,

Cast the gloomy past aside,

Needless to explain to you, that dreary wagon ride.

The first blows fairly landed,

More to follow, more to fall.

I’ll be there ever with him to the call.

When they reached the fatal farm

And the cruel master

Placed him ‘neath the lash.

I see his young flesh quiver.

From that cruel and hungry hide.

But that sterling manly heart, they could not crush.

I was there close beside him, on that bitter frosty morn.

Long before the sun had glistened on the crest,

It was easy to mistake the bells, but one thing I can swear,

The little lad of ten had done his best.

He had failed to find the horses, in that open country scrub.

The next few lines to you will tell the rest.

I saw him take the cruel kick,

That brought him to his knees,

Recover; rise to fall beneath a blow.

Moments later pause,

To tear the freezing ice soles from his feet

On that bitter winter morning years ago.

I followed him in silence,

To his gunyah, bleak and cold.

I saw the teardrop glisten in his eye.

I saw him pack his little swag,

Strike out with steps so bold,

Though pinched with pain and hunger, not a sigh.

Through the years of toil and tussle,

I was always in his wake,

Watched his onward upward struggle, in a life of give and take.

Saw him lose, where others prospered,

Winning through where others failed,

Turn away from foul dishonour, and the horrors it entailed.

Written by Hugh Ranton.