C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

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 a 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.