Mrs Day Gone By
 

For little Mrs Day Gone By, life was very hard,
No automatic washing machine, a posstub in the yard,
A coal fired pot boiler, boiled her washing clean and bright,
With washing board and mangle, she toiled from dawn til night,
In a great black range, which she polished with black lead,
Mrs. Day Gone By, baked her cakes and her bread,
It had a tap on the boiler , and it made the water hot,
It's fire held a singing kettle, or a huge great cooking pot,
No wall to wall carpet,  or vacuum machine,
But a cane carpet beater, to beat her rugs clean,
Clippy rugs and proggy mats,  on the stone floor,
Made with old clothes and cast offs,  til her fingers were sore,
She made them with her neighbours, sometimes by candlelight,
She may have a feather mattress,  on which to sleep at night,
If she did it was a luxury,  which few could afford,
Perhaps she slept upon a palliasse, which was harder than a board,
Chamber pots and middens, and tipple over loos,
No bathroom with flush fitting, in a colour that you choose,
No modern music centre,  or new technology,
A harpsichord or a music box,  was a perfect luxury,
If only Mrs Day Gone By,  could see how times have changed,
In so very very short at time,  so much is rearranged,
She would see the television, computer and motor car,
 She might like to surf the world wide web,  so near and yet so far,
 What about the aeroplane,  soaring through the sky
 Oh, I don't know !  What would she think?  Mrs. Day Gone By.

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© 2000 Carole A. M.  Johnson

 

Please do not take this graphic
It is a family photograph!