A corner of Frodo’s head registered that he was somewhat drunker than he had intended.  He must be, otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten on the table in the first place.

Inevitably, his mind went back to the last time he had been standing upon a table and expected to entertain a sea of drink-addled faces.  Of course, then, he had only been pretending to be drunk, and there were the two minor matters of keeping Pippin’s tongue from running and that horrid thing he’d kept fumbling with in his pocket…

Well, there was nothing in his pockets tonight, not so much as a loose string, so things could hardly go worse than then.

“My lords and ladies,” he said, bowing deeply, “I am most honored by your attention.  How may I be of service to you this evening?”

“Song!” came the immediate cry, as it generally did.

Frodo tried to recall what would have happened next in the days when he was the sort of fellow who didn’t mind dirtying the table with his feet and belting out a tune, but that had been so long ago, and it had never been with strangers…

Suddenly Frodo felt very small, and seriously contemplated getting back off the table.

Coward.  “Er… what sort of song?”

There was surely a smattering of different responses, but they were all drowned out by one cry in the back from a very red-nosed lord—was it Húrin of the Keys?—“Bawdy song!”

Frodo stammered and vainly attempted to explain that the Shire did not exactly have a tradition of venereal humor—or, at least, one that spread beyond the bedroom to bachelors’ ears—but suddenly all eyes were fixed on him as what felt like the entire court of Minas Tirith began to speculate on a hitherto irrelevant aspect of Halfling nature.

He was not the right person for this.

In desperation, he cast around for a song that had a prayer of fulfilling Lord Húrin’s request, and more importantly, got everyone’s thoughts thoroughly off the topic at hand.

He settled upon the first one he could recall.

There was a lass from Delving,

Who longed the world to see

She wished a situation

To let her travel free.

She spoke unto the Mayor,

And with him struck a deal,

And now she roams the Farthings Four

The hearts of lads to steal!

Oh, the postal lass from Delving,

Who works the world to see

She’ll take your hand and sweetly say,

“Come! You’re the lad for me!”

Tam worked a farm near Frogmorton,

His hungry self to feed.

Relations sent him letters, but

He’d never learned to read.

The postal lass from Delving said,

“I know just what to do!

You lay your head upon my lap,

And I’ll read them to you!”

Oh, the postal lass from Delving,

Who works the world to see

She’ll sigh your name and sweetly say,

“Come! You’re the lad for me!”