And not the men of this town
Nor the men of the next town
Know the true purpose they hold.
These men could be beggers,
These men could be kings,
And still they do not come forth.
We see them, sometimes,
As they wander at their will
Along the worn roads
And the barren wild lands,
As if, by some chance
They were once a great breed of man,
Forgotten by time, by us.
And they never belong among us,
And they never laugh with us at the inn,
Ever alone in the corner,
Clad in mud stained travelers clothes,
With the swords, like legends tell of,
As if they are too mighty for us to know,
For us to realise.
So whispers and stares follow them,
For not all men understand
These rangers of whom we are wary
Live by the sword for our land.