This was written for my Auntie Annie by my Grandfather. The comments are by my Auntie Pearl, Pearl’s comments…….. This poem was written for Annie. At that time if you wanted to sell chickens, you sent for a crate to put them in, but this time it didn’t arrive. The part about Dad’s clothes ~ I’m sure the suit of Uncle Jacks was Aunty Louisa’s idea. Dad never wore a suit in his life, but when he went out, he always wore clean moleskin trousers, a white shirt and a spotless white hanky round his neck. He was very clean and tidy. Dad really loved Annie. (She was his firstborn). Granny Magford’s was the wine place in Glenrowan where Ned Kelly was captured. Edna and I used to go there sometimes to work.

I think Grandad was feeling guilty for going off to drink and by doing so the chicken escaped. He used to like to drink so I have heard. He died when I was 1, so I never knew him. He spent a lot of years living at Auntie Annie’s place, Her husband Dan died very young and she raised a family of six children.

Poem by Hugh Ranton (1866-1937) as remembered by his daughter Pearl McKinley

Annie's Poem.

Yes, time flies swiftly onward,
Though it seems but yesterday
that we met at Granny Mogford's
where the chicken got away.

He'd escaped from his companions
through a vent, within the bag,
Which I fixed, you well remember
with some rotten string or rag.

Then we looked among the others
to make sure that they were right,
But we found the trip and worry
had put out another's light.

And me thought me of the scotch man,
Aye, that close and canny beast,
With his `bang goes sixpence lassie',
Each was worth a thrum at least.

My heart went out with pity,
For your face was lined with care,
And I read the disappointment
at the crate that wasn't there.

Wee Ticky didn't know me,
You will learn with some surprise,
I was there in borrowed plumage,
Like a jackdaw in disguise.

For the hat that covered Snowy
and the clothes upon my back
- bar the boots with Danny's heels -
all belonged to Uncle Jack !

I left you at the slip rails,
For a moment took a spell,
Quaffed a wine, seized my packet,
Took the train and steamed to hell.

In the end, the pick and crowbar
and that tough, unfinished line,
Where you reckoned at the day's end
posts erected number nine.

Myself was in a muddle
and was left to dream at night
that I'd done the same as usual,
Just the thing that wasn't right.

Oh well, we all have our troubles
some are great and some are small;
But no matter their dimension,
'Twould be better - none at all !

But when Gabriel blows the trumpet,
Though the distance is so far,
I will shout aloud to Peter
for to swing dem gates ajar.

Hugh Ranton

The Battle Of Wattle-oo

Poem by Hugh Ranton (1866-1937) as remembered by his daughter Pearl McKinley. (Auntie Pearl)

“The Cutter” was my Grandfather Hugh Ranton and “The Trapper” was my Uncle Bob.

They were working on a large station property in Victoria about 1917, they were clearing blackberry and wattle suckers and trapping rabbits, “The Trapper” was about 14 years old at the time.

I know nothing more of Jim Knox, other than that he wanted my Granddads job, which he wasn’t about to give up.

THE BATTLE OF WATTLE-OO.

One morning bright and early

Ere the sun had dried the dew,

Old Jim Knox came thro' the clearing

Shouting, " Cockadoodaldoo."

Little thinking, little dreaming

As across the ridge he flew

That in meeting with the cutter,

He would meet his Water-Loo.

Alone and unsuspecting,

With his pipe a going well,

The cutter dodged the dew drops

As the keen-edged slasher fell.

“Hell and Tommy! What’s the matter,

Wasn't that a rooster crew ?"

There stood Knoxey, pants in soxy,

On the fields of Wattle-oo.

"You've robbed me of my living,

You're a crawler low," he said.

"The job I had my eye on,

I shall punch you in the head."

"Softly, gently," said the cutter.

"That's a game that's played by two,

And we'll fight to see who takes it

on the field of Wattle-oo."

The trapper in the gully,

Hearing sounds of curses rent,

Said,"Hulloa, there's something doing!"

In the scrub beyond the tent.

Helter Skelter, thro' the timber,

Just a moment late, or two,

An upper cut placed Jim

On the fields of Wattle-oo.

Written by Hugh Ranton

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.