Behold! a mighty host,
high upon the circling crests.
Upon the hills that ringed,
where Pelennor Field does rest.
Upon a cock's crow,
the errant break of dawn.
The winds that blew,
the darkness Mordor spawned.
Then time reins in,
gently, as if to still.
As a single trumpet blows,
enveloping soo shrill.
The call of Rohan's brave,
in aid to Gondor's plight.
A sea of valiant horsemen,
that rode in through the night.
Behold upon his noble steed,
mighty Snowmane.
Rides Theoden,
Rohan's liege and rightful thain.
With his golden shield,
his banner wildly flying.
Like Eorl of old,
in the battles that legend sings.
The white horse,
upon an emerald field.
Flying upon spears,
that noble warriors wield.
Rows upon rows of riders,
a sight that never fails.
To raise the spirits of friends,
and make their enemies quail.
The faithful sons of Eorl,
what a sight to see.
Warriors both fair and tall,
and as fell in battle's lee.
With sword and shield,
spear and battle trained mount.
Their visage grim,
but their battle cries are sung.
Then noble Theoden,
did roused up the ranks.
With his speech of battles,
glories and honours hence.
To remember their pledge,
to Gondor as is their wont.
To fullfil their oath,
and duty to friendship sworn.
And in the end he did stand up,
in the stirrups of his steed.
"Ride!" he cries,
so mighty and clear indeed.
And as he the first to ride,
in the forefront and vanguard.
Trumpet calls rang out,
to signal this mighty charge.
As one the riders rode,
as thunder their battle rage.
As a mighty wave they roll,
in a crash to consume and engage.
The very ground doth shake,
shiver, tremble and eviscerate.
The fury of their charge,
is terrible to create.
And yet what awe, what majesty,
upon this glorious deed.
As the riders rode with fury,
upon their mighty steeds.
Their courage, their grandeur,
doth fills the heart ablaze.
With the voice of valour,
and a touch of gallant grace.
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