O Quickbeam ent, upon your feet
how bright your boots so red!
O hasty friend, your way you wend
and orcs before you fled.
From entish moot, your way on foot,
to Isengard did march.
With thoughts of wrath, you trod that path
for rowan, beech, and larch.
His fire may scorch, put friends to torch,
but we have come with war.
For rowan fair, with golden hair,
will sing for you no more.
Hearseeno 