The Dornishman's wife was as fair as the sun,
and her kisses were warmer than spring.
But the Dornishman's blade was made of black steel,
and its kiss was a terrible thing.
The Dornishman's wife would sing as she bathed,
in a voice that was sweet as a peach.
But the Dornishman's blade has a song of its own,
and a bite sharp and cold as a leech.
As he lay on the gorund with darkness around,
and the taste of his blood on his tongue.
His brothers knelt by him and prayed him a prayer,
and he smiled and he laughed and he sung.
"Brothers, oh brothers, my days here are done.
The Dornishman's taken my life.
But what does it matter for all men must die,
and I have tasted the Dornishman's wife!"