A thousants farewells to the white potatos
for as long as we had them, a pleasant hoard
affable, innocent, coming into our company
as they laughed with us the head of the board.

They were help to the nurse, to the man and the child,
to the weak and the strong, to the young and the old
but the cause of my sorrow, my grief my affliction
them rolling away, without frost, without cold.

What will be a shroud for those to be buried?
Tobacco, pipes or a coffin of wood?
If we are to die now may the high king protect us
and, of course, it would be a release if we could