Frostmourne

Lines of footmen in a row.

Long shadows cast upon the snow.

Can't retreat, nowhere to go,

We must all hold the line.

…

The Scourge, they keep up their attack,

Time and again we drive them back,

Fortitude, none of us lack,

We must buy Prince Arthas time.

…

Again, they hit our shield wall,

A line of iron, standing tall.

But here and there a soldier falls,

When will our prince return?

…

The undead, always closing in,

Over time our ranks are thinned,

Perhaps not a battle we can win,

But every step the dead must earn.

…

But then we hear a trumpet sound,

Some of us, we look around.

Prince Arthas strides over the ground,

A runeblade at his side.

…

Muradin, his knights, they're gone,

They shall be mourned in ballads, songs,

Arthas charges to the throng,

The undead, we defy.

…

But then he bids that we move out,

Undead forces we must rout.

No time to rest or lay about,

Mal'ganis must be slain.

…

I want to urge against attack,

In numbers and health our soldiers lack,

But we march, no turning back,

So from warnings I refrain.

…

Don't agree with my prince's reasoning,

Yet he is our future king.

But I hear his sword whispering,

"Death shall read your tale of doom."

…

I shake it off – a silly thought,

This attack won't be for naught.

Yet my soul, it remains fraught,

O'er my soul, a shadow looms.