This thread has two posts for the song about the "Praties." I recognize it from a recording by Susan Reed, the singing harp player, from my childhood (Elektra label, was it?).

"The Anthology of the Potato," Dublin 1961 (limited edition), includes this song, which it credits to an appearance in "The Midland Tribune"; it is printed on page 78.

Pardon the duplication, please. Like the versions that precede it in this thread, the song has three verses; the slight variations in words here and there might be useful, or at least interesting, to someone.

OH! THE PRATIES THEY ARE SMALL OVER HERE

[no known author; 19th century Ireland]

Oh! the Praties they are small over here -- over here
Oh! the Praties they are small over here,
Oh! the Praties they are small, and we dug them in the fall,
And we ate them skins and all, full of fear -- full of fear.

Oh! I wish that we were geese in the morn -- in the morn,
Oh! I wish that we were geese in the morn,
Oh! I wish that we were geese, for they live and die at peace,
Till the hour of their decease, eatin' corn -- eatin' corn.

Oh! we're down into the dust, over here -- over here
Oh! we're down into the dust, over here,
Oh! we're down into the dust, but the Lord in whom we trust,
Will soon give us crumb or crust over here -- over here.