(WITH A CHORUS.)
Of all the wonderful works of Nater,
What surprises me most, she can make a tater!
She gathers the stuff to produce a skin,
And then gradually stuffs the tater in.
Tater! tater! Best bread made by Nater!
No baker alive could make a tater.
In Ireland, where earth is so fertile and turfy,
They mispronounce tater by calling it Murphy.
In France, where all language to ribbons they tear,
They nominate tater a pomme de terre!
Tater ! tater ! The brown bread of Nater!
Old Nick couldn't give a worse nickname for tater.
Of words that sound proud I was always a hater—
All creatures that purr, from a fool to a cat,
Should be made to eat taters without any fat.
Tater! tater! Good Nater creator!
If an angel said per, I belave I should bate her.
O how shall I praise you? I don't want to hurt you
By making you vain and destroying your virtue;
But — baked, fried, boiled, roasted, you're equally good,
And in pigpen or palace alike understood.
Tater! tater! First and best boon of Nater!
When I stop being poet, I'd turn to a tater.
What makes all men kin? It is "one touch of Nater!"
And what is that touch, but the touch of a tater?
Of all flowers of the field, tater flour I most prize,
Best bread for the body and meet for the eyes.