It's a holiday home now,
Empty most of the year,
But this was my home,
Born and grew up here.
No mod cons in the cottage then.
No electric wringer and washer,
An old brick copper, Scrubbing
brushes, dolly tub and posher.
No electric cooker, just an old
Yorkist range, black leaded bright
With its oven, water back boiler
And coal fire to warm the night.
When the fire burned down
To a glowing red embered bed
It was out with the toasting fork
And loaf of home baked bread.
I would sit and hold each slice
To toast in the glowing heat,
Which my mam would butter
For one of us to quickly eat.
Supper time in that cottage
Part of a simple country life
Led quietly by the family of
A farm labourer and his wife.
Just after the second war when
Each person knew their place
Before the wind of social change
Got going and increased inpace.
Its been fully restored now
With sympathy and care
No longer my old home
But at least it's still there.
