Disclaimer:  Middle-earth and all its people belong to the Tolkien Estate.  I own none of them.  Some of them, however, seem to own me.

                                           THE LOVELY ROSIE COTTON

“Oh bother!” exclaimed Sam as he wadded up another piece of paper and discarded it. He drew forth a new piece and took up the quill again.

“The lovely Rosie Cotton is the only lass for me,” He sat back and considered. Started to write again, but found he needed to dip the pen once more. Then he had a drip on the page. In frustration, he wadded this one up and added it to the other discards.

The hobbits had been in one of the taverns in Minas Tirith the night before, and had heard several guardsmen singing a song about “The Lovely Rose of Gondor”. It had put him in mind of his Rosie, and the tune had been running through his mind ever since. He thought he’d try his hand at writing his own version--after all, he’d made a few songs in the past, well, mostly funny ones, like the one about the troll he’d made up to cheer Mr. Frodo after Weathertop. How hard could it be to write a song about his Rosie, when he thought about her all the time? He wrote a few more lines, but they still didn’t suit. Again, he wadded it up, and started afresh.

Sighed. Another piece crumpled.

Doggedly, he started over.

Merry and Frodo were relaxing in the garden when Pippin came in from his duty at the White Tower. “Where’s Sam?” he asked.

His older cousins looked at one another, as if only just realizing that their friend had not joined them in the garden that afternoon. “Why, he’s still in the sitting room, I guess,” said Frodo, wrinkling his brow in concern. “That’s not like him, to stay indoors on a nice day like this.”

Merry stood up, and swatted at the grass on the seat of his breeches. “You stay nice and comfortable here, Frodo. Pip and I will go and roust him out for you.”

Merry and Pippin saw him in the sitting room, elbows on the table, his curly hair clutched in both hands, staring morosely at a piece of paper. He heaved a sigh.

“Sam,” said Pippin. Sam jumped. “Frodo wants you out in the garden.”

“Oh well,” said the gardener. He wadded up the paper, and added to a pile of similar discards. He got up and headed out for the garden with alacrity.

Pippin’s curiosity came to the fore first. “I wonder what he’s been so busy writing?” he said, moving to the table.

“It’s none of our business, Pip,” said Merry, right behind him.

Pippin picked up one of the wads and uncrinkled it. “Aha!” he gave a chuckle. Merry looked over his shoulder and grinned.

“The ‘lovely Rosie Cotton’ indeed,” said Merry.

Pippin picked up another, and unwadded it. “You know, this isn’t half bad, Merry. I wonder why he kept throwing them away.”

Merry chuckled. Pippin wasn’t a writer. Merry had made a few attempts of his own in the past. He knew how difficult it was to be satisfied with one’s own words.

He picked up one and opened it out. “This one’s almost finished.” He smoothed it out on the table, looked at it thoughtfully, and then carefully folded it and stowed it in his jacket.

Pippin looked at him with a questioning grin.

“I don’t know, Pip,” his cousin answered the unspoken question. “but it seems like it might come in handy someday. Besides, it seems a shame to waste all his effort.”

__________________________________________________

Rosie and Sam sat in the front room at the Cottons’. It was the day before the wedding, and the last day to receive gifts, as it was considered in the worst possible taste and possibly even bad luck, to have gifts at the wedding itself. It was the custom for hobbit couples to stay home and receive the well-wishers and their gifts during the afternoon for a few days before the wedding.

There had been a parade of friends and kin in and out all afternoon, but at the moment there was a lull, and it was just the two of them. Sam had started to put his arm around Rosie, when there was another knock on the door. He sighed, and Rosie gave him a wry smile.

“Why Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin!” They heard Rosie’s mother Lily exclaim. “I’m surprised. You brought your gifts several days ago.”

“Hullo, Mistress Lily,” came Merry’s voice. “We just have an extra little token for the happy couple.”

The cousins came into the front room, bearing a medium sized flat package, wrapped in brown paper and string.

“Hullo Sam and Rosie,” said Pippin. “Nervous yet?”

Sam rolled his eyes, and Rosie giggled. Sam wondered what those two were up to now.

Pippin handed the package to Rose, and Merry grinned.

“Let Rose open this one; it’s only partly from us,” he said cryptically. Sam looked at him with narrowed eyes. He’d been around them enough to know when they were pulling something. Meanwhile, Rose was ripping off the paper and string. It was something in a frame.

“Oohh,” she breathed. “Oh, Sam!” Suddenly Sam found himself the recipient of an enthusiastic kiss from his betrothed--which, while pleasant, was somewhat unexpected at the moment.

“Here, now! Let me see!” He turned the frame towards himself, and found he was staring at a nicely framed page of his own handwriting, except for four lines at the bottom.

He turned a reproachful, slightly hurt gaze on the cousins, who returned it with unrepentant grins.

“Wasn’t no one meant to see that, now,” he said sadly.

“I don’t know why not,” answered Merry. “It’s quite good.”

“Oh, it’s lovely,” breathed Rose, with tears in her eyes.

“Would you like me to sing it for you, Rose?” offered Pippin.

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but Rose said “Yes, please, if you would, Mr. Pippin.”

Pippin grinned at Sam. “Now see, we can’t possibly be responsible for disappointing your bride, can we?”

“You can’t be responsible, period,” muttered Sam.

“What was that, Sam?” asked Merry, who had heard him perfectly well.

Pippin just opened his mouth and started to sing.

Oh, the lovely Rosie Cotton, I’m going home to see;
Nobody else could miss her quite half so much as me.
It hurt so when I left her, it like to broke my heart,
And when I get back to her, we never more will part.

She’s the dearest little lassie on this side of the Sea,
Her eyes are like the Elven-stars that sparkle through the trees.
You may talk about your Elven maids and sing of Lúthien,
But the lovely Rosie Cotton has my heart in the end.

Where the Brandywine is flowing and the summer sky is bright
She walks down through the meadows in the early morning light.
I know that she remembers when we parted long ago,
She said I would return again, to never leave her so.

Oh, the lovely Rosie Cotton is the only lass for me;
Her eyes are like the Elven-stars that sparkle through the trees.
You may talk about your Elven maids and sing of Lúthien,
But the lovely Rosie Cotton has my heart in the end.  

Stout-hearted Samwise Gamgee is a hobbit brave and true.
He struggled on through hardships few others ever knew;
But now the battle’s ended, and what’s the fighting for?
His lovely Rosie Cotton will be his forevermore.   

Pippin stopped and leaned forward to whisper: “The last verse was Merry’s.”

His cousin blushed. They all had tears in their eyes. Sam supposed he ought to be angry at them for looking at his private writing, but looking at the fond expressions on their faces, and the joy on his bride’s he somehow could not bring himself to be.

His lovely Rosie Cotton, indeed. He gave her a foolish grin.