North of Chetwood, and of Midgewater Fen,
Came brigand knaves to a town of men,
Carefully they crept through midnight haze,
Set tender timber and thatch ablaze,
The watchers, in fear, the walls they forsook,
And fled to Captain Brackenbrook,
He, a man of great renown,
Made to defend Archet-town,
Now he longed for his son John,
Yet after rash words the youth was gone,
And now was no time for regret,
For the Bree-landers were sore beset,
The Captain’s right hand proved a turncloak,
And with the Captain’s blood his blade was soaked,
Tragedy took a turn for the stranger,
Red-wraiths departed with Amdir-ranger,
Son John came too late to save his sire,
But he spilled the traitor’s blood on the funeral pyre,
So passed at length a joyless night,
And mothers wept come mourning-light.
