Grandad Beaumont Poem by Lindsey Priest

Beaumont Kaye of Fulstone
Born in Eighteen Seventy One.
In the Yorkshire Pennines
Where woollen cloth was spun.

About this particular Grandad
I know little at all,
I never even met him,
He died when Dad was small.
My father didn’t tell me much
Except he seemed to like Beau’s name,
For when a baby was expected,
He wanted it called the same.

Beaumont worked with stone
His father worked on the railis
He was called a stone delver or mason
But I’m not sure what this entails.
One thing is quite certain,
It was a fair-weather job,
During the cold winter months
It was hard to earn a bob.

In a local dye-house,
Work was found,
The floor was always littered,
Rubbish covered the ground.
One ordinary day,
Beau stepped
on a rusty nail,
Which pierced
his boot and sock
And left a nasty trail
Of poison and soon
An infection spread,
Beaumont could do nothing
But take to his bed.
Septicaemia and gangrene
Took a swift hold,
And sad news followed
When he was told...
First one leg,
Then the other,
Had to be lost.
For a rusty nail
An enormous cost.

Beaumont never worked
With stone or dye again
In his lumpy old wheelchair
He’d go off down the lane.
His bed was brought downstairs
After the sad mishap
Friends would come and visit
He was a popular chap.

How this affected his family
Is quite easy to say,
With no job
There came no pay.
His wife, my Grandma,
Ran a shop,
She worked so hard
Till fit to drop.
The children had to help
Their weary mother
And look after my Dad
Their much loved baby brother.

My Granddad died aged sixty one,
Which doesn’t seem so old.
He was a kindly sort of man,
At least that’s what I’m told.
He always had a pocketful
Of humbugs or sweets,
To give to anyone
He met on the street.

Beaumont Kaye of Fulstone
Born in Eighteen Seventy One.
In the Yorkshire Pennines
Where woollen cloth was spun.

April 2006