The Irish Spinning-Wheel

Alfred Perceval Graves (1846–1931)

SHOW me a sight,

Bates for delight

An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.

Oh no!

Nothing you ’ll show

Aquals her sittin’ an’ takin’ a whirl at it.

Look at her there—

Night in her hair,

The blue ray of day from her eye laughin’ out on us!

Faix, an’ a foot,

Perfect of cut,

Peepin’ to put an end to all doubt in us.

That there ’s a sight

Bates for delight

An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it—

Oh no!

Nothin’ you ’ll show

Aquals her sittin’ an’ takin’ a twirl at it.

See! the lamb’s wool

Turns coarse an’ dull

By them soft, beautiful weeshy white hands of her.

Down goes her heel,

Roun’ runs the wheel,

Purrin’ wid pleasure to take the commands of her.

Then show me a sight

Bates for delight

An ould Irish wheel wid a young Irish girl at it.

Oh no!

Nothin’ you ’ll show

Aquals her sittin’ an’ takin’ a twirl at it.

Talk of Three Fates,

Seated on sates,

Spinnin’ and shearin’ away till they ’ve done for me!

You may want three

For your massacree,

But one Fate for me, boys—and only the one for me!

And isn’t that fate

Pictured complate—

An ould Irish wheel with a young Irish girl at it?

Oh no!

Nothin’ you ’ll show

Aquals her sittin’ and takin’ a twirl at it.