The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

He stuck it in his tall hat, the old feather casting:

‘Blue now for Tom,’ he said, ‘a merry hue and lasting!’

Rings swirled round his boat, he saw the bubbles quiver.

Tom slapped his oar, smack! at a shadow in the river.

‘Hoosh! Tom Bombadil! ’Tis long since last I met you.

Turned water-boatman, eh? What if I upset you?’

‘What? Why, Whisker-lad, I’d ride you down the river.

My fingers on your back would set your hide a-shiver.’

‘Pish, Tom Bombadil! I’ll go and tell my mother;

“Call all our kin to come, father, sister, brother!

Tom’s gone mad as a coot with wooden legs: he’s paddling

down Withywindle stream, an old tub a-straddling!”’

‘I’ll give your otter-fell to Barrow-wights. They’ll taw you!

Then smother you in gold-rings! Your mother if she saw you,

she’d never know her son, unless ’twas by a whisker.

Nay, don’t tease old Tom, until you be far brisker!’

‘Whoosh!’ said otter-lad, river-water spraying

over Tom’s hat and all; set the boat a-swaying,

dived down under it, and by the bank lay peering,

till Tom’s merry song faded out of hearing.

Old Swan of Elvet-isle sailed past him proudly,

gave Tom a black look, snorted at him loudly.

Tom laughed: ‘You old cob, do you miss your feather?

Give me a new one then! The old was worn by weather.

Could you speak a fair word, I would love you dearer:

long neck and dumb throat, but still a haughty sneerer!

If one day the King returns, in upping he may take you,

brand your yellow bill, and less lordly make you!’

Old Swan huffed his wings, hissed, and paddled faster;

in his wake bobbing on Tom went rowing after.

Tom came to Withy-weir. Down the river rushing

foamed into Windle-reach, a-bubbling and a-splashing;

bore Tom over stone spinning like a windfall,

bobbing like a bottle-cork, to the hythe at Grindwall.

‘Hoy! Here’s Woodman Tom with his billy-beard on!’

laughed all the little folk of Hays-end and Breredon.

‘Ware, Tom! We’ll shoot you dead with our bows and arrows!

We don’t let Forest-folk nor bogies from the Barrows

cross over Brandywine by cockle-boat nor ferry.’

‘Fie, little fatbellies! Don’t ye make so merry!

I’ve seen hobbit-folk digging holes to hide ’em,

frightened if a horny goat or a badger eyed ’em,

afeared of the moony-beams, their old shadows shunning.

I’ll call the orks on you: that’ll send you running!’

‘You may call, Woodman Tom. And you can talk your beard off.

Three arrows in your hat! You we’re not afeared of!

Where would you go to now? If for beer you’re making,

the barrels aint deep enough in Breredon for your slaking!’

‘Away over Brandywine by Shirebourn I’d be going,

but too swift for cockle-boat the river now is flowing.