Against fire black and whips of flame
You stood your ground, stooped with pain
You leaned on your staff, wizened but strong
You struck his sword, mocked his thong
At last you cast him down from on high,
Morgoth's soldier; then tell me why
You lingered at that fateful moment,
Falling in a fiery torrent?
How could you, so great, the victor
Be dragged cruelly down, Mithrandir?
Friend, my friend, I am lost without you
I cannot see what I should do
You were ever there, guiding me
How can I guide, I foresee?

Aragorn came through the trees
Found Boromir in the glade
Pierced with many arrows he was
Against the bark of a great tree.

Many orcs did there lay.
In Boromir hand was his hilt.
There lay the horn, cloven in two.
Aragorn knelt, Boromir spoke,
“I tried to take the ring.”

Twenty orcs were at his feet.
“I have paid, the Halflings they took
Bound they were, but dead not.”
Wearily his eyelids did close:
“Farwell Aragorn,” at last he spoke.
“Go to Minas Tirith, I have failed.”