The Adventures of Tom Bombadil

I’d bless little folk that took me in their wherry,

wish them evenings fair and many mornings merry.’

Red flowed the Brandywine; with flame the river kindled,

as sun sank beyond the Shire, and then to grey it dwindled.

Mithe Steps empty stood. None was there to greet him.

Silent the Causeway lay. Said Tom: ‘A merry meeting!’

Tom stumped along the road, as the light was failing.

Rushey lamps gleamed ahead. He heard a voice him hailing.

‘Whoa there!’ Ponies stopped, wheels halted sliding.

Tom went plodding past, never looked beside him.

‘Ho there! beggarman tramping in the Marish!

What’s your business here? Hat all stuck with arrows!

Someone’s warned you off, caught you at your sneaking?

Come here! Tell me now what it is you’re seeking!

Shire-ale, I’ll be bound, though you’ve not a penny.

I’ll bid them lock their doors, and then you won’t get any!’

‘Well, well, Muddy-feet! From one that’s late for meeting

away back by the Mithe that’s a surly greeting!

You old farmer fat that cannot walk for wheezing,

cart-drawn like a sack, ought to be more pleasing.

Penny-wise tub-on-legs! A beggar can’t be chooser,

or else I’d bid you go, and you would be the loser.

Come, Maggot! Help me up! A tankard now you owe me.

Even in cockshut light an old friend should know me!’

Laughing they drove away, in Rushey never halting,

though the inn open stood and they could smell the malting.

They turned down Maggot’s Lane, rattling and bumping,

Tom in the farmer’s cart dancing round and jumping.

Stars shone on Bamfurlong, and Maggot’s house was lighted;

fire in the kitchen burned to welcome the benighted.

Maggot’s sons bowed at door, his daughters did their curtsy,

his wife brought tankards out for those that might be thirsty.

Songs they had and merry tales, the supping and the dancing;

Goodman Maggot there for all his belt was prancing,

Tom did a hornpipe when he was not quaffing,

daughters did the Springle-ring, goodwife did the laughing.

When others went to bed in hay, fern, or feather,

close in the inglenook they laid their heads together,

old Tom and Muddy-feet, swapping all the tidings

from Barrow-downs to Tower Hills: of walkings and of ridings;

of wheat-ear and barley-corn, of sowing and of reaping;

queer tales from Bree, and talk at smithy, mill, and cheaping;

rumours in whispering trees, south-wind in the larches,

tall Watchers by the Ford, Shadows on the marches.

Old Maggot slept at last in chair beside the embers.

Ere dawn Tom was gone: as dreams one half remembers,

some merry, some sad, and some of hidden warning.

None heard the door unlocked; a shower of rain at morning

his footprints washed away, at Mithe he left no traces,

at Hays-end they heard no song nor sound of heavy paces.