Deep below the water cold, there lie the bones
of one once bold.
His amour rusts, His fire is quenched, His beating heart is still as
stone.
The claw that crushed the foot that stamped, now taken by the water
damp.
His glory fades His years are spent. Under the waves He fades away.
In withered lands without a home, He flew alone dark lands to roam.
The greatest of a mighty kin, His own rich fortune sought‘t begin.
Deep beneath the mountain cold, the Dwarven masters smithied gold.
Fair shapes they wrought and jewels they brought, from darkling stone
to Dwarven home.
In mighty halls there gold was bred, and treasures fair in caverns
laid.
The mountain king in splendor reigned; his gilded halls would be his
bane.
The empty wastes He passed with haste, to steal the rich enchanted
gold.
With hot desire he flew with fire, to Erebor the grim and tall.
Of mighty wing and scarlet breath, His shadow told the Doom of Death.
Into the valley death and fire, for wroth and lust and Dragon’s ire.
The tolling bell in horror nells, the Dragon in the valley swells.
There arrows frail upon his scales, of iron beat in futile feat.
No hand so mighty yet they weild, to make the Dragon’s fire yield.
In after hour the broken tower and shattered bell, in Dale men fell.
Then down He came by steaming falls, the trumpet calls the call to
arms.
But axes vain against him came, and Durin’s kin with fire were slain.
Into the gate to Dwarven hate, He searched the halls and galleys great.
In mighty halls there dying falls, the wizened lords and lore of old.
In triumph’s rest He builds His nest, of horded gold in chambers cold.
In cavern deep and dungeon hot, He piles his wealth through fire
bought.
On shining bed He lays his head, a diamond waistcoat glistening.
No spear He feared or shaft in flight, or haughty man arrayed in might.
Long years alone He sat in might, on bed of gold to Dwarves despite.
New mountain king untroubled sat, in gilded hall on Manflesh fat.
The withered grass around grew wild, the cheerless trees grew gray and
died.
In Dragon lands no Man dared come, in somber Smaug’s desolation.
But vengeance sought the Oakenshield, his wroth from Dragon’s hoard
would heal.
His kinsman slain he would have paid, the Dragon’s bones he would have
laid.
Long journey sought his wandering band, his counsels led by wizard’s
hand.
Though strong of heart and hard of will, no hope had he the wurm to
kill.
The Dragon in His mansion hot, his fires low in rest dear bought.
No threat feared he of deadly plot, no thief would he allow uncaught.
But from secret door and magic lent, the Lucky Number came and went.
A golden cup he picked with haste, then back among his comrades raced.
Woken found He cup was gone, and rose His rage like fiery dawn.
From dungeon deep to tallest peak, He flamed in wroth the thieves to
seek.
His belching flames sent forth in rage, to grieve the unseen thief and
knave.
But none he found at mountains feet, save ponies fat and fit to eat.
Yet these His wroth did not assuage, but saved his wit and planning
gave.
Deep under stone returned him home, to wait the burglar there to come.
Returning came the Spider’s Bane, the Halfling, staunch through fire
and rain.
From under hill and through the air, through elven caves and waters
fair.
The stinging fly, the web-cutter, Barrel-rider, Luckwearer.
No gold he lusted or treasure sought, but with his riddles tidings
brought.
Revenge! Revenge!
The Dwarven spite he voiced alone, in deepest dungeon under stone.
But Dragon sire fierce as fire, sent him flying smoldering
Into the darkling sky he rent, his fury on the Lakemen bent.
Barrel-riders they would know, the fury of there greatest foe.
The mountain flickered in the night, the river running golden bright.
But joy then turned to sudden grief, for Vengance came He of the thief.
His scarlet breath it singed with death, and laid there mighty towers
low.
But screaming shaft and twanging bow, would not the Dragon’s ruin slow.
Into the night the flames roared high, flaming bolts falling from high.
His foes succumbing to His might, as flames consumed to wurms delight.
But gallant thrush had heard the tale, of weakness in his mighty mail.
From Hobbit mouth to bowman’s ear, the speeding thrush passed news so
dear.
Black arrow from the mountain cold, handed down from days of old.
Was fitted tight and sent to fly, to Dragon breast as He passed nigh.
With fury sped and curses brought, were other barbs had come to naught.
It pierced his mighty flesh in where, his dazzling armor still was
bare.
With deafening roar and belching flame, he turned on high thrashing in
vain.
But death at last had reached him nigh, his shattered ruin fell from
high.
Ruinous toppled his great form, to which the fleeing Men did mourn.
For full upon the town he laid, and not but gledes his throes he made.
But spent was he of all his might, the splintered town in moonlit
night.
All sank beneath the steaming shore, the mighty Smaug now was no more.
Struck down by man with final shot, his death by mortal hands was
brought.
Deep in the water he now laid, his mighty memory left to fade.
Deep below the water cold, there lie the bones of one once bold.
His amour rusts, His fire is quenched, His beating heart is still as
stone.
The waxing moon it glitters cold, on waters deep and waters cold.
But who can say how long he’ll lay, till memory fades of his great
days.
