Mother of Warriors

Let mine head rest upon the warmth of thy bosom
Wherein lies the meal of every infant as small as I
As a suckling I swear to perform the duty that is asked of me
I will feed upon that which thou hast stored for me

Let thy bread be thorny and thy honey bitter
Drink thy tea cold and eat thy grapes sour
A dash of vinegar to thy drinking water add
Spice not the venison; serve it glum

That when thou hast eaten, thy milk will come fourth
Thorny and bitter, cold and glum
Feed me not what you did my siblings for sweetness is stranger to me
But let this warrior such as I am feed upon thy misery
For from this day you shall be named the mother of warriors

Years that hide beyond the hills of time will yet reveal
The meaning behind the meal thine breast provides
Fickle or strong, cowardly or chivalrous, it will yet speak
I know not what I shall be, so let thy milk prepare me
Mother of this warrior, give me the most bitter tasting milk!