Son of Gondor, blowing horn,
Calling allies, cries forlorn,
With many orcs, their arrows bite,
Through cloth and mail, with all their might.
Standing still, with all his heart,
Pierced not just once, but many darts.
He fought alone, to save the others,
Fight no braver if for his brother.
Bow to doom and all that meant,
He hailed his king, a just lament.
“I’ve failed,” he says to his lord captain,
No, rest dear one, it shall not happen.
Our Minas Tirith will not fall,
If I’ve life on which I still can call
Here now lay, in autumn spent,
Their captain great, he sadly went.