I've been across the Brandywine, I've been across the forest,
My legs are sore, my back is bent, but spirits are the sorest.
Where the Withywindle winds, a whistling sprite commanding,
Old Man Willow sleeping, now, and all the party standing
Tell us, Bombadil, oh won't you, Father of the Land,
Won't you lend your service to this sad and weary band?
Sing to us oh Golden Berry, River's daughter tell;
Will the master of the land lead us to Rivendell?
In this land of song and dream, the weary fades away,
we learn to watch and wait and feel the coming of the day.
Intoxicated with the sights and songs of praise and wonder,
all these wicked thoughts of fear and darkness lay asunder
Misty Mountains shrouded now in future and in fear,
but future, past, and present all are one in Mirrormere.
Won't you come, Tom Bombadil, we need you now to make it,
but he replied the land is mine, and I cannot forsake it.
A Prancing Pony, and a couple pints of brew,
a Strider dark appears to help us through.
A haggard look as if he'd had a trip and back from hell,
a look to help us through to Rivendell
A somber journey home for him,
home to Rivendell . . .
. . .home, to Rivendell