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— Per-contra—per-centum—per-digious—per-tater! 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.
Tater! tater! Did I wish to beat Nater, I’d take you when new, and produce a baked tater!
Some scoff at a tater, and don’t wish to see un; They say you are vulgar and very plebeian, And call you a root! But their minds are unsound: It’s your modesty tells you to hide in the ground.
Tater! tater! Many-eyed, potent tater! (King Richard with III. was only Dick-tater.)