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.