ANNA MACMANUS (Ethna Carbery).

* * * * *

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.

JOHN FRANCIS O’DONNELL.

* * * * *

THE WEARING OF THE GREEN.[A]

[Footnote A:  Variation of an old street song of about 1798.  Sung in Dion Boucicault’s play “The Shan Van Voght.”]

  O Paddy dear, an’ did you hear the news that’s goin’ round? 
  The shamrock is forbid by law to grow on Irish ground;
  St. Patrick’s Day no more we’ll keep; his colors can’t be seen: 
  For there’s a cruel law agin’ the wearin’ of the green. 
  I met with Napper Tandy, and he tuk me by the hand,
  And he said, “How’s poor ould Ireland, and how does she stand?”
  She’s the most distressful country that ever yet was seen: 
  They are hangin’ men and women there for wearin’ of the green.

  An’ if the color we must wear is England’s cruel red,
  Sure Ireland’s sons will ne’er forget the blood that they have shed. 
  Then pull the shamrock from your hat and cast it on the sod,
  And never fear, ’twill take root there, though under foot ’tis trod. 
  When law can stop the blades of grass from growin’ as they grow,
  And when the leaves in summer-time their color dare not show,
  Then I will change the color, too, I wear in my caubeen;
  But till that day, please God, I’ll stick to wearin’ of the green.