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The breath of a babe? or Connaught and Ulster in sorrow?
Let her be slain. Who remembers the deed on tomorrow?’
A dozen swords spring from their scabbards and flash fierce and bright,
The child for the fair steel stretched out her small hands in delight.
Connor laughed: ‘Let her live, and if beauty should grant her a dower,
I will wed. Toast your queen, ere I hide her from fate in a tower.’

So the child prattled and grew fair as a wild-flower uncurled,
Till the maid's reason began to wonder how narrow her world.
What the great walls of the court hid from her inquisitive view,
What perfumed the wind from the west, and where went the finch when he flew.
Many sweet tales told her nurse, that fed her romantic young brain.
Till sleeping were sweet for its dreams, and waking was dreaming again.
What if their lone tower was built on a high rock right out in the sea.