Chorus:
Late at night, she draws her silver sword,
She defies her station and her lord.
The muscles on her arms, she knows she can't explain,
But when she sheathes her silver sword, her spirit cries in pain.

She never was a fighter, but a lady proper-prim,
Has never known a battle, nor such conditions grim.
But something in the steel makes her fingers twitch and ache,
To put on her man's clothing and her weapon's hilt to take.

(chorus)

She hides her swecret well, she does, from the public and her lord,
For the servants love her dearly and never say a word.
And though they think she's odd, she feels the truth somewhere
In her bones and in her soul, that the fighter still is there.

(chorus)

Did she live before her time as a warrior or lord?
And if not how does she know just how to hold a sword?
Could there be another cause to make her feel so free
When she forsakes her proper dress and fights in the armoury?

(chorus)

Whatever reason drives her out to practice every night,
Somehow it never gives her want to forsake her home to fight.
Perhaps, she often wonders, shooting arrows in the yard,
She is content with life as-is, but old habits just die hard.

(chorus)