TATERS.
(WITH A CHORUS.)
Of all the wonderful works of Nater,What surprises me most, she canmake a tater!She gathers the stuff to produce a skin,And then gradually stuffs the tater in.Chorus.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 itMurphy.In France, where all language to ribbons they tear,They nominate tater apomme 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 thatpurr, from a fool to a cat,Should be made to eat taters without any fat.Tater! tater! Good Nater creator!If an angel saidper, I belave I should bate her.O how shall I praise you? I don’t want to hurt youBy 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 whatisthat 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 abakedtater!Some scoff at a tater, and don’t wish to see un;They say you arevulgarand very plebeian,And call you a root! But their minds are unsound:It’s yourmodestytells you to hide in the ground.Tater! tater! Many-eyed, potent tater!(King Richard with III. was only Dick-tater.)But alas! you are deaf to my harp’s fond endeavor,Or I’d sing in this beautiful fashion forever!You have eyes, but you see not; you’re deaf as a drum;And as none else will listen, like you I’ll be dumb.Tater! tater! When I leave mortal Nater,Let the world calmly think what I thought of a tater!W. O. Eaton.
Of all the wonderful works of Nater,What surprises me most, she canmake a tater!She gathers the stuff to produce a skin,And then gradually stuffs the tater in.Chorus.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 itMurphy.In France, where all language to ribbons they tear,They nominate tater apomme 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 thatpurr, from a fool to a cat,Should be made to eat taters without any fat.Tater! tater! Good Nater creator!If an angel saidper, I belave I should bate her.O how shall I praise you? I don’t want to hurt youBy 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 whatisthat 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 abakedtater!Some scoff at a tater, and don’t wish to see un;They say you arevulgarand very plebeian,And call you a root! But their minds are unsound:It’s yourmodestytells you to hide in the ground.Tater! tater! Many-eyed, potent tater!(King Richard with III. was only Dick-tater.)But alas! you are deaf to my harp’s fond endeavor,Or I’d sing in this beautiful fashion forever!You have eyes, but you see not; you’re deaf as a drum;And as none else will listen, like you I’ll be dumb.Tater! tater! When I leave mortal Nater,Let the world calmly think what I thought of a tater!W. O. Eaton.
Of all the wonderful works of Nater,What surprises me most, she canmake a tater!She gathers the stuff to produce a skin,And then gradually stuffs the tater in.
Chorus.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 itMurphy.In France, where all language to ribbons they tear,They nominate tater apomme 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 thatpurr, from a fool to a cat,Should be made to eat taters without any fat.
Tater! tater! Good Nater creator!If an angel saidper, I belave I should bate her.
O how shall I praise you? I don’t want to hurt youBy 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 whatisthat 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 abakedtater!
Some scoff at a tater, and don’t wish to see un;They say you arevulgarand very plebeian,And call you a root! But their minds are unsound:It’s yourmodestytells you to hide in the ground.
Tater! tater! Many-eyed, potent tater!(King Richard with III. was only Dick-tater.)
But alas! you are deaf to my harp’s fond endeavor,Or I’d sing in this beautiful fashion forever!You have eyes, but you see not; you’re deaf as a drum;And as none else will listen, like you I’ll be dumb.
Tater! tater! When I leave mortal Nater,Let the world calmly think what I thought of a tater!W. O. Eaton.