There-s many a house of grandeur,
With turret, tower and dome,
That knows not peace or comfort,
And does not prove a home.
I do not ask for splendour
To crown my daily lot,
But this I ask - a kitchen
Where the kettles always hot.

If things are not all ship-shape,
I do not fume or fret,
A little clean disorder
Does not my nerves upset.
But one thing is essential,
Or seems so in my thought,
And that-s a tidy kitchen
Where the kettle-s always hot.

In my Aunt Hattie-s household,
Though skies outside are drear,
Though times are dark and troubled,
You-ll always find good cheer.
And in her quaint old kitchen -
The very homiest spot -
The kettle-s always singing,
The water-s always hot.

And if you have a headache,
Whate-er the hour may be,
There is no tedious waiting
To get your cup of tea.
I don-t know how she does it -
Some magic she has caught -
For the kitchen-s cool in summer,
Yet the kettle-s always hot.

Oh, there-s naught else so dreary
In household kingdom found
As a cold and sullen kettle
That does not make a sound.
And I think that love is lacking
In the hearts in such a spot,
Or the kettle would be singing
And the water would be hot.