I drew up a chair
at a table for three
and hail'd to Barliman
for a goblet of mead,
when and eerie feeling
passed sudden on me.

I look and I ponder,
in the shadows I wonder.

Who? I know not
for he is 'Outsider'
the Man of the Dark,
a Ranger called Strider.

Muddy boots of grey,
a great cloak of brown.
He sat cornered, alone,
neither smiled nor frowned.
Smoking a pipe
his head in smoke crowned.

No friends had he,
or so it seemed to me.

He looked forsaken indeed,
as a recluse spider
this Man in the corner
a Ranger called Strider

Steadily he drew
at his pipe of wood
and looked on vigilantly
as only a Ranger could.
Thinking I caught his eye,
I waved, but 'twas no good.

But of course, didn't I know
that I waved only for show.

For I do not wish to get
familiar with an Outsider,
the gloomy Man of the Dark,
this Ranger called Strider.

We do not understand
just why he decides
to wait in the shadows
in loneliness abide,
and never show pain
from being cast aside.

But he would refuse
to hear our silly views.

If and when he joins in
I'll trade ale for cider
I and my comrades laugh
at the Ranger called Strider.

Little do I know what
his opinion is of me
as I laugh and carry on
like my brain were a pea.
He cares not to make friends
with my companions and me.

His mind's on things greater
than my odd little caper.

Smiling roguishly, he knows
his noble heart is higher
the lost heir to a throne,
the Ranger called Strider.