The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

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

sitting on the door-step chopping sticks of willow,

while fair Goldberry combed her tresses yellow.

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The old year was turning brown; the West Wind was calling;

Tom caught a beechen leaf in the Forest falling.

‘I’ve caught a happy day blown me by the breezes!

Why wait till morrow-year? I’ll take it when me pleases.

This day I’ll mend my boat and journey as it chances

west down the withy-stream, following my fancies!’

Little Bird sat on twig. ‘Whillo, Tom! I heed you.

I’ve a guess, I’ve a guess where your fancies lead you.

Shall I go, shall I go, bring him word to meet you?’

‘No names, you tell-tale, or I’ll skin and eat you,

babbling in every ear things that don’t concern you!

If you tell Willow-man where I’ve gone, I’ll burn you,

roast you on a willow-spit. That’ll end your prying!’

Willow-wren cocked her tail, piped as she went flying:

‘Catch me first, catch me first! No names are needed.

I’ll perch on his hither ear: the message will be heeded.

“Down by Mithe,” I’ll say, “just as sun is sinking.”

Hurry up, hurry up! That’s the time for drinking!’

Tom laughed to himself: ‘Maybe then I’ll go there.

I might go by other ways, but today I’ll row there.’

He shaved oars, patched his boat; from hidden creek he hauled her

through reed and sallow-brake, under leaning alder,

then down the river went, singing: ‘Silly-sallow,

Flow withy-willow-stream over deep and shallow!’

‘Whee! Tom Bombadil! Whither be you going,

bobbing in a cockle-boat, down the river rowing?’

‘Maybe to Brandywine along the Withywindle;

maybe friends of mind fire for me will kindle

down by the Hays-end. Little folk I know there,

kind at the day’s end. Now and then I go there.’

‘Take word to my kin, bring me back their tidings!

Tell me of diving pools and the fishes’ hidings!’

‘Nay then,’ said Bombadil, ‘I am only rowing

just to smell the water like, not on errands going.’

‘Tee hee! Cocky Tom! Mind your tub don’t founder!

Look out for willow-snags! I’d laugh to see you flounder.’

‘Talk less, Fisher Blue! Keep your kindly wishes!

Fly off and preen yourself with the bones of fishes!

Gay lord on your bough, at home a dirty varlet

living in a sloven house, though your breast be scarlet.

I’ve heard of fisher-birds beak in air a-dangling

to show how the wind is set: that’s an end of angling!’

The King’s fisher shut his beak, winked his eye, as singing

Tom passed under bough. Flash! then he went winging;

dropped down jewel-blue a feather, and Tom caught it

gleaming in a sun-ray: a pretty gift he thought it.