Second son, where are your hands?
Upon weapon sharp or book of lore
I love not the sword for its glowing blade
But this City for its history fading
Second son, where is your head?
In Ithilien’s shining forests green
Where the scars are few upon the flesh of trees
There gentle wildness yet lingers
Beneath the Shadow’s cruel fingers
Second son, where is your heart?
Far to the North where my brother has gone
And now going East, where I dare not
The Halfling fainting I gently caught
Second son, heir of the City
You look on him with eyes of pity
And honour you pay him, tho he be half-high
His importance you cleverly descry
Thou art born the second son
But higher honour you would shun
A prince, a captain, a scolar, a friend
More hearts than one thou art destined to mend.
