They say that gold, it need not glitter,
They say that wanderers need not be lost,
But remember that silver starts to tarnish,
For years of trials this is the cost.
A suit of mail becomes of coffin,
A coat of chain becomes one’s skin.
A sword in hand becomes best friend,
As a ranger rides wrapped in cloak so thin.
Each day is self-same,
Each night is still.
He does his best to do his duty,
He lives on grit and heart and will.
The years blend slowly, become a river.
Flow ever on and on the same.
His heart grows weary, his brow it darkens.
His life quite simply, hell is it’s name.
He tires of wand ‘ring, and seeks a stillness,
He wants his long hard ride to end.
The task at hand has become his illness,
The empty trail is a thankless friend.
His title, ranger, is no good fortune,
It leaves him one without a home.
Instead of lord, he becomes a horseman,
And his bloodied blade he needs always hone.
He dreams of days when war is ended,
When Shire and Bree need not his aid.
When the one true king his throne’s ascended,
When home and hearth keep safe his maid.
But those days stand distant,
He’s never known them,
His only hope is watching constant.
And preventing loss of life and limb.
And so he rides alone and silent,
Keeping watch without a sound.
For one day soon his land stands vibrant
And leather cowl becomes his crown.