The King lies still on the stricken field
'Neath the bloodied morning skies.
Sees the white horse rippling in the wind
As he closes his failing eyes.
I lift my eyes to the standard,
To salute my fallen King,
Then I look at my stricken kinsmen,
Slain for a golden ring.
Now I look on my dying brothers,
Recalling their names to my mind,
Guthlaf and Grimbold and Fastred,
With the blood of warriors signed.
A body lies 'neath the standard,
Blood staining her golden hair,
With a face that is paler than lillies,
The face of Eowyn the fair.
"Eowyn!" I cry in my madness,
"Eowyn! How came you here?"
And though she be silenced forever,
On her cheek lies a single glass tear.
Eowyn, my sister, I call thee,
But thy face is graven like stone,
And thy eyes see not thy own brother,
Who thus is left alone.
My sister hears not my calling,
And she cannot answer me,
But a red mist falls before my eyes,
Our destruction is all I can see.
"What madness or devilry is this?"
That my sister should here lie slain,
And "Death!" I cry to my kinsmen,
For death is all that remains.
As I spur to the front of the battle,
All fly from our faces in dread,
I see Eowyn riding beside me,
For none can conquer the dead.
At the last, though, our foes surround us,
White horses cut down by the dark.
And I wonder what tale the minstrels will make
Of Eomer, last King of the Mark.