A Spinning Song

John Francis O’Donnell (1837–1874)

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.