Next day John and his ploughman Tam, Whose face was like a baccon ham Which baith round, brown, and fatis, Gaed yont, -- John's han' the laird he shook it, To count his man and Tam were yoket, Ten hunder' Thousand taties.
Wi' neeves like grapes they to the guddle; The laird maun condescend to fuddle John's Janet's aughteen-pence: Hegh but this warld's ill divided, No' ae drap where it's far maist needed, -- "Mind self," is right gude sense.
They counted a' that afternoon, Five hours close wark, when they were done Says Tam we'll hae them met; They measur'd just eight score of pecks, This job, I doubt, the laird will vex, But forty thousand yet.
As day brake butter brake, -- the laird And John came stepping thro' the yard -- Weel lads how come ye on? Is this the million lying here? And are ye sure ye've counted fair? Wrang'd neither side, quo' John.
The million, faith, it's nae sic thing, Ther's forty tousaand aff the bing -- Whilk measures just ten bows; -- The laird would neither bin nor haud, Stamped an' rag'd like ane stark mad, -- John calmly prim'd his nose.
Ye needna be in sic a huff, Your rage I donna care a snuff, (Spits) That I dinna car't; I want nae mair than what's my right, -- Gae, says the laird, gae fraw my sight, -- Quo' John, I'm no' soon fear't.
A plea commenc'd, John gain'd the day, Poor soul the laird was forc'd to pay A hundred pounds and ten E'er John would yield the grip he had; But feelingly the laird he bade Tak better care again.
pp. 46 - 61, An Anthology of the Potato editor: Robert McKay Dublin: Allen Figgis & Co., for Irish Potato Marketing Company, 1961 "500 copies only"