Based on The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Under a spreading Mallorn-tree
The Steward’s strong son stands.
This son, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is thick, and gold, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with hard-earn’d sweat,
He does whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he bows not to any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You hear him bellow and blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sword,
With faster beat or slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And hobbits traveling on with him
(He wonders whatever for),
They love to see the flashing sword,
And hear his bellowed roar,
And see that burning light that shines
Like sun from a metal door.
He goes on traveling with the rest,
And often his shield hoists;
He knows that there were promises, but
He hears the One Ring's voice,
Whispering from it’s hidden chain,
It tempts his heart with choice.
It sounds to him like the sweetest voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of it once more,
That in small hands it lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he grips
His sword and shuts his eyes.
Onward through peril he goes;
Each morning sees some path begin,
Each evening sees it close.
Something attempted, something done -
Yet it haunts each night’s repose.
We mourn for thee, o worthy friend,
For the battle thou hast fought!
Thus by the flaming desires of life
Our fortunes might be wrought;
Thus we might pay for wrongful pride
With burning deed and thought.