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.