Beloved lady, warrior-lord,

I wear my armor loose,

the better to throw down my sword

and breathe the peace of truce.

My rank-and-vile gender,

with their sour victories, brag,

but I pray my sweet surrender

may yet waive the winning flag:

for though the charge of conquest calls,

my triumph would retreat;

my hardened heart's war-hammered halls

are softened in defeat;

my castle stands tall, pole to pole,

but all my walls are doors;

your name is written on my soul,

and all my halls are yours.

-Connor Kildenny, with fiddle and horn