LITMIR.BIZ

      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:

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

      sitting on the door-step chopping sticks of willow,

      while fair Goldberry combed her tresses yellow.