A Spinning Song

    MY love to fight the Saxon goes,       And bravely shines his sword of steel;     A heron’s feather decks his brows,       And a spur on either heel;     His steed is blacker than the sloe,       And fleeter than the falling star;     Amid the surging ranks he ’ll go       And shout for joy of war. Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle.   Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft, old-fashioned ditties   To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel.     My love is pledged to Ireland’s fight;       My love would die for Ireland’s weal,     To win her back her ancient right,       And make her foemen reel.     Oh! close I ’ll clasp him to my breast       When homeward from the war he comes;     The fires shall light the mountain’s crest,       The valley peal with drums. Twinkle, twinkle, pretty spindle; let the white wool drift and dwindle.   Oh! we weave a damask doublet for my love’s coat of steel. Hark! the timid, turning treadle crooning soft old-fashioned ditties   To the low, slow murmur of the brown round wheel.