The Potato's Dance

    "Down cellar," said the cricket,
    "I saw a ball last night
    In honor of a lady
    Whose wings were pearly-white.
    The breath of bitter weather
    Had smashed the cellar pane:
    We entertained a drift of leaves
    And then of snow and rain.
    But we were dressed for winter,
    And loved to hear it blow
    In honor of the lady
    Who makes potatoes grow -
    Our guest, the Irish lady,
    The tiny Irish lady,
    The fairy Irish lady
    That makes potatoes grow.

    "Potatoes were the waiters,
    Potatoes were the band,
    Potatoes were the dancers
    Kicking up the sand:
    Their legs were old burnt matches,
    Their arms were just the same,
    They jigged and whirled and scrambled
    In honor of the dame:
    The noble Irish lady
    Who makes potatoes dance,
    The witty Irish lady,
    The saucy Irish lady,
    The laughing Irish lady
    Who makes potatoes prance.

    "There was just one sweet potato.
    He was golden-brown and slim:
    The lady loved his figure.
    She danced all night with him.
    Alas, he wasn't Irish.
    So when she flew away,
    They threw him in the coal-bin
    And there he is to-day,
    Where they cannot hear his sighs -
    His weeping for the lady,
    The beauteous Irish lady,
    The radiant Irish lady
    Who gives potatoes eyes."