When Ida puts her armor on br And draws her trusty blade br The turnips in the bin turn pale, br The apples are afraid. br The quiet kitchen city wakes br And consternation feels, br And quick the tocsin pealeth forth br In long potato peels. br br When Ida puts her armor on br The pots and pans succumb, br A wooden spoon her drum-stick is, br A mixing pan her drum; br She charges on the kitchen folk br With silver, tin and steel br She beat the eggs, she whips the cream, br The victory is a meal. br br When Ida puts her apron on br Her breast-plate is of blue. br (Checked gingham ruffled top and sides) br Her gauntlets gingham, too; br And thus protected from assault br Of batter, stain and flour br She wars with vegetable foes br And conquers in an hour. br br When Ida puts her armor on br She is so fair to see br Her battle with the kitchen folk br Is reproduced in me; br So sweet she is, armed cap-a-pie, br So good her kitchen art br I hardly know which loves her best br My palate or my heart.