|O slender as a willow-wand!|
O clearer than clear water!
O reed by the living pool!
|Hey! Come derry dol! Hop along, my hearties!|
Hobbits! Ponies all! We are fond of parties.
Now let the fun begin! Let us sing together!
|Ere iron was found or tree was hewn,|
When young was mountain under moon;
Ere ring was made, or wrought was woe,
It walked the forests long ago.
|Fell deeds awake: fire and slaughter!|
Spear shall be shaken, shield be splintered,
A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!
Ride now, ride now! Ride to Gondor!
|Alive without breath;|
as cold as death;
never thirsting, ever drinking;
clad in mail, never clinking.
|Where now the horse and the rider?|
Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk,
and the bright hair flowing?
|A ship then new they built for him|
of mithril and of elven-glass
with shining prow; no shaven oar
nor sail she bore on silver mast...
|His sword was long, his lance was keen|
his shining helm afar was seen;
the countless stars of heaven's field
were mirrored in his silver shield.
|Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry.|
There many foes he fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword,
they to the water brought...
|When the black breath blows|
and death's shadow grows
and all lights pass...
...Life to the dying in the king's hand lying!
|The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.|
West, west away, the round sun is falling.
Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,
The voices of my people...
|Seek for the Sword that was broken:|
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
|O! Water cold we may pour at need|
down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed;
but better is Beer, if drink we lack,
and Water Hot poured down the back.
|...What be you a-thinking of?|
You should not be waking.
Eat earth! Dig deep!
Drink water! Go to sleep!
|Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!|
O Queen beyond the Western Seas!
O Light to us that wander here
Amid the world of woven trees!
|A deadly sword, a healing hand,|
A back that bent beneath its load;
A trumpet-voice, a burning brand
A weary pilgrim on the road.
|...The world is grey, the mountains old,|
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls...
|...Pursuing it with eager feet,|
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.
|...Seldom have walked the feet of Men,|
Few mortal eyes have seen the light
That lies there ever, long and bright...
|As Beren looked into her eyes|
Within the shadows of her hair,
The trembling starlight of the skies
He saw there mirrored shimmering.