When Ida puts her armor on
And draws her trusty blade
The turnips in the bin turn pale,
The apples are afraid.
The quiet kitchen city wakes
And consternation feels,
And quick the tocsin pealeth forth
In long potato peels.

When Ida puts her armor on
The pots and pans succumb,
A wooden spoon her drum-stick is,
A mixing pan her drum;
She charges on the kitchen folk
With silver, tin and steel
She beat the eggs, she whips the cream,
The victory is a meal.

When Ida puts her apron on
Her breast-plate is of blue.
(Checked gingham ruffled top and sides)
Her gauntlets gingham, too;
And thus protected from assault
Of batter, stain and flour
She wars with vegetable foes
And conquers in an hour.

When Ida puts her armor on
She is so fair to see
Her battle with the kitchen folk
Is reproduced in me;
So sweet she is, armed cap-a-pie,
So good her kitchen art
I hardly know which loves her best
My palate or my heart.

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