From rolling steppe the tigress rides
Bathed in the rising sun
Thundering wrath her hooves betide
Her lands the dark-eyed shun
The earth is bathed in crimson tide
'Ere her ride is done.

From her shoulders shines a shirt of scale
On her brow a helm of felt
Her cry of war is a piercing wail
Making Grecian courage melt
Her wrathful spite makes manhood fail
More then Mede or Celt

Her blue eyes burn with piercing fire
Her war shafts split the air
Her sword cuts flesh with furious ire
On her horse she turns with flair
Her boots crush bones of Ionian sires
Her poignard claims their hair

Come dusk the roaring fires shine
Before her golden tent
For her gaze the cocky horsemen pine
To her songs all ears are bent
With mead and ale they dance and rhyme
Till legs and lungs are spent

Come dawn the golden mornlight breaks
O'er expanse of golden plain
The jingle tune of scale mail shakes
'Neath hair of golden flame
A princess proud the saddle takes
To ride and revel 'gain