East of the mountains, over the plain
Dark clouds gather, foreboding rain
Red in the south the beacons flame
To warn of approaching thunder.
In the Hall of Gold, the bells are rung
Blades are honed and bows are strung
Loud cry voice and horn and drum
To summon Rohan’s thunder.
Beneath the banners of green and gold
The wings of the waking storm unfold
And slowly spread across the Wold
The mutterings of thunder.
Gathering speed, the winds arise
A mist of dust ‘neath lowering skies
Down from the north the war-host rides
To the sound of mounting thunder.
South under stars the horsemen pass,
A rain on the mountains, wind in the grass
On through the nightfall morrowless;
For a breath then stills the thunder.
Mute on the ridge, at the brink of war,
With dawn behind and death before,
A thousand hooves times twenty and four
Await the command to thunder.
Faint in the east glimmers the morn
A streak of fire to waken the horn
A clarion voice and the clouds are torn
As the host sets free its thunder.
One in their wrath, in their vengeance dire
With a mane of snow and feet of fire
Their blade’s their song, their bow’s their lyre,
Their steeds are Rohan’s Thunder.
- Elvellon Ringsbane