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."