The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

Poor Tom Bombadil, pale and cold he’ll make you!’

‘Go out! Shut the door, and never come back after!

Take away gleaming eyes, take your hollow laughter!

Go back to grassy mound, on your stony pillow

lay down your bony head, like Old Man Willow,

like young Goldberry, and Badger-folk in burrow!

Go back to buried gold and forgotten sorrow!’

Out fled Barrow-wight through the window leaping,

through the yard, over wall like a shadow sweeping,

up hill wailing went back to leaning stone-rings,

back under lonely mound, rattling his bone-rings.

Old Tom Bombadil lay upon his pillow

sweeter than Goldberry, quieter than the Willow,

snugger than the Badger-folk or the Barrow-dwellers;

slept like a humming-top, snored like a bellows.

He woke in morning-light, whistled like a starling,

sang, ‘Come, derry-dol, merry-dol, my darling!’

He clapped on his battered hat, boots, and coat and feather;

opened the window wide to the sunny weather.

Wise old Bombadil, he was a wary fellow;

bright blue his jacket was, and his boots were yellow.

None ever caught old Tom in upland or in dingle,

walking the forest-paths, or by the Withywindle,

or out on the lily-pools in boat upon the water.

But one day Tom, he went and caught the River-daughter,

in green gown, flowing hair, sitting in the rushes,

singing old water-songs to birds upon the bushes.

He caught her, held her fast! Water-rats went scuttering

reeds hissed, herons cried, and her heart was fluttering.

Said Tom Bombadil: ‘Here’s my pretty maiden!

You shall come home with me! The table is all laden:

yellow cream, honeycomb, white bread and butter;

roses at the window-sill and peeping round the shutter.

You shall come under Hill! Never mind your mother

in her deep weedy pool: there you’ll find no lover!’

Old Tom Bombadil had a merry wedding,

crowned all with buttercups, hat and feather shedding;

his bride with forgetmenots and flag-lilies for garland

was robed all in silver-green. He sang like a starling,

hummed like a honey-bee, lilted to the fiddle,

clasping his river-maid round her slender middle.

Lamps gleamed within his house, and white was the bedding;

in the bright honey-moon Badger-folk came treading,

danced down under Hill, and Old Man Willow

tapped, tapped at window-pane, as they slept on the pillow,

on the bank in the reeds River-woman sighing

heard old Barrow-wight in his mound crying.

Old Tom Bombadil heeded not the voices,

taps, knocks, dancing feet, all the nightly noises;

slept till the sun arose, then sang like a starling: