| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
| 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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| 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. | |
| |
