J. Tolkien - The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!

The Lonely Troll he sat on a stone
and sang a mournful lay:
'O why, O why must I live on my own
in the hills of Faraway?
My folk are gone beyond recall
and take no thought of me;
alone I'm left, the last of all
from Weathertop to the Sea'.

'I steal no gold, I drink no beer,
I eat no kind of meat;
but People slam their doors in fear,
whenever they hear my feet.
O how I wish that they were neat,
and my hands were not so rough!
Yet my heart is soft, my smile is sweet,
and my cooking good enough.'

'Come, come!' he thought, 'this will not do!
I must go and find a friend;
a-walking soft I'll wander through
the Shire from end to end'.
Down he went, and he walked all night
with his feet in boots of fur;
to Delving he came in the morning light,
when folk were just astir.

He looked around, and who did he meet
but old Mrs. Bunce and all
with umbrella and basket walking the street;
and he smiled and stopped to call:
'Good morning, ma'am! Good day to you!
I hope I find you well?'
But she dropped umbrella and basket too,
and yelled a frightful yell.

Old Pott the Mayor was strolling near;
when he heard that awful sound,
he turned all purple and pink with fear,
and dived down underground.
The Lonely Troll was hurt and sad:
'Don't go!' he gently said,
but old Mrs. Bunce ran home like mad
and hid beneath her bed.

The Troll went on to the market-place
and peeped above the stalls;
the sheep went wild when they saw his face,
and the geese flew over the walls.
Old Farmer Hogg he spilled his ale,
Bill Butcher threw a knife,
and Grip his dog, he turned his tail
and ran to save his life.

The old Troll sadly sat and wept
outside the Lockholes gate,
and Perry-the-Winkle up he crept
and patted him on the pate.
'O why do you weep, you great big lump?
You're better outside than in!'
He gave the Troll a friendly thump,
and laughed to see him grin.

'O Perry-the-Winkle boy', he cried,
'come, you're the lad for me!
Now if you're willing to take a ride,
I'll carry you home to tea'.
He jumped on his back and held on tight,
and 'Off you go!' said he;
and the Winkle had a feast that night,
and sat on the old Troll's knee.

There were pikelets, there was buttered toast,
and jam, and cream, and cake,
and the Winkle strove to eat the most,
though his buttons all should break.
The kettle sang, the fire was hot,
the pot was large and brown,
and the Winkle tried to drink the lot,
in tea though he should drown.

When full and tight were coat and skin,
they rested without speech,
till the old Troll said: 'I'll now begin
the baker's art to teach,
the making of beautiful cramsome bread,
of bannocks light and brown;
and then you can sleep on a heather-bed
with pillows of owlets' down'.

'Young Winkle, where've you been?' they said.
'I've been to a fulsome tea,
and I feel so fat, for I have fed
on cramsome bread', said he.
'But where, my lad, in the Shire was that?
Or out in Bree?' said they.
But Winkle he up and answered flat:
'I aint a-going to say'.

'But I know where', said Peeping Jack,
'I watched him ride away:
he went upon the old Troll's back
to the hills of Faraway'.
Then all the People went with a will,
by pony, cart, or moke,
until they came to a house in a hill
and saw a chimney smoke.

They hammered upon the old Troll's door.
'A beautiful cramsome cake
O bake for us, please, or two, or more;
O bake!' they cried, 'O bake!'
'Go home, go home!' the old Troll said.
'I never invited you.
Only on Thursdays I bake my bread,
and only for a few'.

'Go home! Go home! There's some mistake.
My house is far too small;
and I've no pikelets, cream, or cake:
the Winkle has eaten all!
You Jack, and Hogg, old Bunce and Pott
I wish no more to see.
Be off! Be off now all the lot!
The Winkle's the boy for me!'

Now Perry-the-Winkle grew so fat
through eating of cramsome bread,
his weskit bust, and never a hat
would sit upon his head;
for Every Thursday he went to tea,
and sat on the kitchen floor,
and smaller the old Troll seemed to be,
as he grew more and more.

The Winkle a Baker great became,
as still is said in song;
from the Sea to Bree there went the fame
of his bread both short and long.
But it weren't so good as the cramsome bread;
no butter so rich and free,
as Every Thursday the old Troll spread
for Perry-the-Winkle's tea.

The shadows where the Mewlips dwell
Are dark and wet as ink,
And slow and softly rings their bell,
As in the slime you sink.

You sink into the slime, who dare
To knock upon their door,
While down the grinning gargoyles stare
And noisome waters pour.

Beside the rotting river-strand
The drooping willows weep,
And gloomily the gorcrows stand
Croaking in their sleep.

Over the Merlock Mountains a long and weary way,
In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,
By a dark pool's borders without wind or tide,
Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.

The cellars where the Mewlips sit
Are deep and dank and cold
With single sickly candle lit;
And there they count their gold.

Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;
Their feet upon the floor
Go softly with a squish-flap-flip,
As they sidle to the door.

They peep out slyly; through a crack
Their feeling fingers creep,
And when they've finished, in a sack
Your bones they lake to keep.

Beyond the Merlock Mountains, a long and lonely road.
Through the spider-shadows and the marsh of Tode,
And through the wood of hanging trees and the gallows-weed,
You go to find the Mewlips — and the Mewlips feed.

Grey as a mouse,
Big as a house,
Nose like a snake,
I make the earth shake,
As I tramp through the grass;
Trees crack as I pass.
With horns in my mouth
I walk in the South,
Flapping big ears.
Beyond count of years
I stump round and round,
Never lie on the ground,
Not even to die.
Oliphaunt am I,
Biggest of all,
Huge, old, and tall.
If ever you'd met me,
You wouldn't forget me.
If you never do,
You won't think I'm true;
But old Oliphaunt am I.
And I never lie.

Look, there is Fastitocalon!
An island good to land upon,
Although 'tis rather bare.
Come, leave the sea! And let us run,
Or dance, or lie down in the sun!
See, gulls are sitting there!
Beware!
Gulls do not sink.
There they may sit, or strut and prink:
Their part it is to tip the wink,
If anyone should dare
Upon that isle to settle,
Or only for a while to get
Relief from sickness or the wet,
Or maybe boil a kettle.
Ah, foolish folk, who land on HIM,
And little fires proceed to trim
And hope perhaps for tea!
It may be that His shell is thick,
He seems to sleep; but He is quick,
And floats now in the sea
With guile;
And when He hears their tapping feet,
Or faintly feels the sudden heat,
With smile
HE dives,
And promptly turning upside-down
He tips them off, and deep they drown,
And lose their silly lives
To their surprise,
Be wise!
There are many monsters in the Sea,
But none so perilous as HE,
Old horny Fastitocalon,
Whose mighty kindred all have gone,
The last of the old Turtle-fish.
So if to save your life you wish
Then I advise:
Pay heed to sailors' ancient lore,
Set foot on no uncharted shore!
Or better still,
Your days at peace on Middle-earth
In mirth
Fulfill!