Disclaimer: All the verses are quoted directly from the books of the Lord of the Rings.

Songs and Verses

Aragorn, King of Gondor, announced that there would be no feast to hail the coming of the Fourth Age.  The dark power had indeed been vanquished and the Ring-bearers had returned, though not unblemished and unmarred in their bodies and souls.  For that reason the new ruler of the men deemed it improper for them to rejoice and make merry.  It was time for them to honor with more solemn fete.

Thus a bonfire was assembled in the midst of the high plain near the White Tree, and the members of the Fellowship and their dearly loved allies gathered around it as they were seated in high-backed, cushioned chairs.  It was almost like the gathering in Imladris when they were to determine the fate of the Ring.

So Aragorn, his eyes sharp yet affectionate, rose from the chair to welcome Gandalf, Legolas, Gimli, Faramir, Eomer, Bilbo, and the Halflings, Frodo the Ring-bearer, Samwise, Merry, and Pippin.

 “My dear, beloved friends …” he began.

Yet words wouldn’t flow as they had these past days.  Praises had been bestowed.  Speeches of gratitude had reached the Valar, but the Dunedin knew not what else to confer save the love flowing from his heart for all in attendance before him.  Something caught in Aragorn’s throat, and he was grateful for what Gandalf then did.  Patting his back and nodding toward him, the Wizard stood up.

“Allow me, my brother.”

To everyone’s surprise, Gandalf did not give any speech nor talk about what had happened, what it meant for the New Year to come to Middle-earth.  Instead, the White Wizard stood quietly, incandescent against the night sky lighted only by the stars and the tongues of flames from below.  All eyes were on him, all breaths held as Gandalf sang.

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Eyes brimming with tears now, Aragorn could only nod with courtesy, and approaching the Maia with his swift gait, he folded Gandalf into his embrace.

“Thank you,” his voice cracked.  “Thank you.”  And he realized it was his turn now to deliver something.  Turning around, he faced his audience and opened his arms.

Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!

West Wind blew there, the light upon the Silver Tree

Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old,

O proud walls! White towers! O winged crown and throne of gold!

O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,

Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea?

Gondor might mean much to Aragorn.  But it stood for everything for Faramir.  It stood for a lost brother, a father gone adrift, and Faramir’s own inability to safeguard it.  He would need a lot of time to cope with all those feelings, but he would not let them ruin this night.  Faramir rose, too, and the air shifted as others altered their attention towards him.  And the Gondorian chanted, despite his inner turmoil.

Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Anor,

For the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,

And the Dark Tower is thrown down.

Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,

For your watch hath not been in vain,

And the Black Gate is broken,

And your King hath passed through,

And he is victorious.

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,

For your King shall come again,

And he shall dwell among you

All the days of your life.

And the Tree that was withered shall be renewed,

And he shall plant it in the high places,

And the City shall be blessed.

Sing all ye people!

Ears perking up at the mention of sing, Merry rose to his feet.

“We all should be more cheerful.  It’s a new year.  Time to sing!”  Then he began the song he and Pippin sang when they were in Crickhollow.

Sing hey! For the bath at close of day

That washes the weary mud away!

A loon is he that will not sing:

O! Water Hot is a noble thing!

O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,

And the brook that leaps from hill to plain;

But better than rain or rippling streams

Is Water Hot that smokes and steams.

O! Water cold we may pour at need,

Down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed;

But better is Beer, if drink we lack,

And Water Hot poured down our back.

O! Water is fair that leaps on high

In a fountain white beneath the sky;

But never did fountain sound so sweet

As splashing Hot Water with my feet!

Every one clapped their hands, and before long started to sing with him.  Merry glanced around with stars in his eyes.

“Your turn, Pip,” he smirked, a corner of his mouth curling up, and he patted the Took’s shoulder affectionately.

Already up from his chair, Pippin nodded fervently.

“Singing!” he chirped.  “I love singing.”  Every one laughed at his keenness, but quieted down as the young hobbit positioned himself near the warm blazing fire, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

When he began singing, his voice resonated through the high plain, down the slopes of the city of Minas Tirith, and fluttered up to the sky. 

Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadows to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all alight.

Then world behind and home ahead,

We'll wander back to home and bed.

Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,

Away shall fade! Away shall fade!

Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,

And to bed! And then to bed!

Behind him, Merry almost choked in his tears.

“Pip the donkey,” he muttered.  “Don’t remind me of home.  Here’s home, too, but—but now I miss mum and dad.”

Somewhat taken aback by Merry’s reaction, Pippin looked at him remorsefully.

“I’m sorry, Merry,” he whispered, tilting his head when a heavy hand rested on his shoulder.

“That’s all right, Master Hobbit,” Eomer said, smiling warmly to him.  “You miss your home, too, and that is understandable.”

To the others, Eomer announced, “I think I will sing something about my home and ancestor, too.”  He smiled sadly back to Pippin.  “I, too, miss my uncle deeply.”

We heard of the horns in the hills ringing

The swords shining in the South-kingdom

Steeds went striding to the Stoningland

As wind in the morning. War was kindled.

There Theoden fell, Thengling mighty,

To his golden halls and green pastures

In the Northern fields never returning,

High lord of the host. Harding and Guthlaf

Dunhere and Deorwine, doughty Grimboldm

Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred,

Fought and fell there in a far country,

In the Mounds of Mundburg under mould they lie

With their league-fellows, lords of Gondor.

Neither Hirluin the Fair to the hills by the sea,

Nor Forlong the old to the flowering vales

Ever, to Arnach, to his own country

Returned in truimph, nor the tall bowmen,

Derufin and Duilin to their dark waters,

Meres of Morthond under mountain shadows.

Death in the morning and at day’s ending

Lords took and lowly. Long now they sleep

Under grass in Gondor by the Great River.

Grey now as tears, gleaming silver,

Red then it rolled, roaring water,

Foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset,

As beacons mountains burned at evening,

Red fell the dew in Rammas Echor.

Grief hung in the air like a thick blanket of bleak clouds during the Dark Lord’s sovereignty.  Loss, albeit inevitable and barely forgiven, still pierced in one’s heart like a fresh, bleeding cut.

Gimli stepped forward, and cleared his throat.  His voice was gruff still when he chanted as he was reminded of his own loss.

The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head

The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall.

Of mighty kings of Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away;

The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote,

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built,

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang

And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

Long years had passed since dwarves and elves had been allies.  Not until  the War of the Ring, when Gimli had met Legolas and vowed to fight and die side by side as friends had the old enmity been laid to rest. Legolas came up to his dwarf companion, almost tiptoeing on his feather-light feet, drawing Gimli tightly into his embrace.

“No more sorrow, all right?” he said softly, and thus was his song.

An Elven-maid there was of old

A shining star by day,

Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,

Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows

A light was on her hair

As sun upon the golden boughs

In Lórien the fair.

Her hair was long, her limbs were white,

And fair she was and free:

And in the wind she went as light

As leaf of linden-tree.

Beside the falls of Nimrodel,

By water clear and cool,

Her voice as falling silver fell

Into the shining pool.

Where now she wanders none can tell,

In sunlight or in shade,

For lost of yore was Nimrodel

And in the mountains strayed.

The elven-ship in haven grey

Beneath the mountain-lee

Awaited her for many a day

Beside the roaring sea.

“The sea,” murmured Frodo.  “I wonder if it can somehow bring peace into my mind.”  And from him came out a song, not his but Bilbo’s, but seemingly fitting just what troubled feelings he had within his heart.

I sit beside the fire and think

Of all that I have seen.

Of meadow-flowers and butterflies

In summers that have been.

Of yellow leaves and gossamer

In autumns that there were

With morning mist and silver sun

And wind upon my hair.

I sit beside the fire and think

Of how the world will be

When winter comes without a spring

That I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things

That I have never seen

In every wood in every spring

There is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think

Of people long ago,

And people who will see a world

That I shall never know.

But all the while I sit and think

Of times there were before

I listen for returning feet

And voices at the door.

Frodo was nigh curling up in his chair, not once had he left it, not even when the others were singing Merry’s song, lost in his own mind and memory.  Looking weary, Sam kneeled before him.

“Frodo, all is well, awful things ‘ve passed.  Don’t go there again.  Don’t go where your Sam can’t follow.”  And his tears flowed down as he hummed.  This so reminded him when he thought he had lost his master to the orcs in Barad Dûr.

In western lands beneath the Sun

The flowers may rise in Spring,

The trees may bud, the waters run,

The merry finches sing.

Or there maybe ‘tis cloudless night

And swaying beeches bear

The Elven-stars as jewels white

Amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey’s end I lie

In darkness buried deep,

Beyond all towers strong and high,

Beyond all mountains steep,

Above all shadows rides the Sun

And Stars for ever dwell,

I will not say the Day is done

Nor bid the Stars farewell.

The stars flickered.  The moon sat and gazed in silence.  No one had said there should be a feast to greet a new age, but no one had said they should drown in memories, either.  But neither Gandalf the White nor the King of Gondor could tell them what they should do or how they should feel.

And the midnight sky darkened as the bonfire turned into a dying ember.

fin