The Irish Potato

The Irish Potato

We find the following clever parody on Wordsworth's celebrated "Old Oaken Bucket" in the (old) "Spirit of the Times:"

How sweet to the taste is the Irish potato,

As memory awakens a thought of the plant;

Its dark verdant vine-top and beautiful blossom.

In pleasing transition my memory haunt.

Ay, thoughts of the root in profusion once growing,

On the broad sunny hill-slope adjoining the mill,

At the homestead, how many were raised there's no knowing,

For some were but small ones, and few in the hill.

The mealy potato, the Irish potato.

The thin-skinned potato that grew on the hill.

That delectable plant I would praise while I'm able,

For often at noon when returned from the field,

I found it superior to all on the table—

The best flavored edible nature can yield.

With what eager appetite, sharpened by labor.

I plied knife and fork with a hearty good will;

Alas! there are none of the old-fashioned flavor,

None like the "real Simons" that grew on the hill;

The mealy potato, the Irish potato,

The thin-skinned potato that grew on the hill.

How prime the full-sheapen dish to receive it,

As poised on the fork it ascends to my mouth;

No appel to the pallet could tempt me to leave it,

Though affected by "rot" or a long summer drouth.

And now far removed from that loved situation,

Where I used to partake of the root to my fill,

Fancy fain would revert to my father's plantation,

And sigh for the "kidneys" that grew on the hill.

The mealy potato, the Irish potato,

The thin-skinned potato that grew on the hill.

Unattributed

1:4, p. 1

8.13.1859

the (old) "Spirit of the Times"