I like to get to thinking of the old days that are gone, <br />When there were joys that never more the world will look upon, <br />The days before inventors smoothed the little cares away <br />And made, what seemed but luxuries then, the joys of every day; <br />When bathrooms were exceptions, and we got our weekly scrub <br />By standing in the middle of a little wooden tub. <br /> <br />We had no rapid heaters, and no blazing gas to burn, <br />We boiled the water on the stove, and each one took his turn. <br />Sometimes to save expenses we would use one tub for two; <br />The water brother Billy used for me would also do, <br />Although an extra kettle I was granted, I admit, <br />On winter nights to freshen and to warm it up a bit. <br /> <br />We carried water up the stairs in buckets and in pails, <br />And sometimes splashed it on our legs, and rent the air with wails, <br />But if the nights were very cold, by closing every door <br />We were allowed to take our bath upon the kitchen floor. <br />Beside the cheery stove we stood and gave ourselves a rub, <br />In comfort most luxurious in that old wooden tub. <br /> <br />But modern homes no more go through that joyous weekly fun, <br />And through the sitting rooms at night no half-dried children run; <br />No little flying forms go past, too swift to see their charms, <br />With shirts and underwear and things tucked underneath their arms; <br />The home's so full of luxury now, it's almost like a club, <br />I sometimes wish we could go back to that old wooden tub.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-wooden-tub/
