6
THE MAN IN THE MOON CAME DOWN TOO SOON

     
    The Man in the Moon had silver shoon,
    and his beard was of silver thread;
    With opals crowned and pearls all bound
    about his girdlestead,
    In his mantle grey he walked one day
    across a shining floor,
    And with crystal key in secrecy
    he opened an ivory door.
     
     
    On a filigree stair of glimmering hair
    then lightly down he went,
    And merry was he at last to be free
    on a mad adventure bent.
    In diamonds white he had lost delight;
    he was tired of his minaret
    Of tall moonstone that towered alone
    on a lunar mountain set.
     
     
    He would dare any peril for ruby and beryl
    to broider his pale attire,
    For new diadems of lustrous gems,
    emerald and sapphire.
    So was lonely too with nothing to do
    but stare at the world of gold
    And heark to the hum that would distantly come
    as gaily round it rolled.
     
     
    At plenilune in his argent moon
    in his heart he longed for Fire:
    Not the limpid lights of wan selenites;
    for red was his desire,
    For crimson and rose and ember-glows,
    for flame with burning tongue,
    For the scarlet skies in a swift sunrise
    when a stormy day is young.
     
     
    He'd have seas of blues, and the living hues
    of forest green and fen;
    And he yearned for the mirth of the populous earth
    and the sanguine blood of men.
    He coveted song, and laughter long,
    and viands hot, and wine,
    Eating pearly cakes of light snowflakes
    and drinking thin moonshine.
     
     
    He twinkled his feet, as he thought of the meat,
    of pepper, and punch galore;
    And he tripped unaware on his slanting stair,
    and like a meteor,
    A star in flight, ere Yule one night
    flickering down he fell
    From his laddery path to a foaming bath
    in the windy Bay of Bel.
     
     
    He began to think, lest he melt and sink,
    what in the moon to do,
    When a fisherman's boat found him far afloat
    to the amazement of the crew,
    Caught in their net all shimmering wet
    in a phosphorescent sheen
    Of bluey whites and opal lights
    and delicate liquid green.
     
     
    Against his wish with the morning fish
    they packed him back to land:
    'You had best get a bed in an inn', they said;
    'the town is near at hand'.
    Only the knell of one slow bell
    high in the Seaward Tower
    Announced the news of his moonsick cruise
    at that unseemly hour.
     
     
    Not a hearth was laid, not a breakfast made,
    and dawn was cold and damp.
    There were ashes for fire, and for grass the mire,
    for the sun a smoking lamp
    In a dim back-street. Not a man did he meet,
    no voice was raised in song;
    There were snores instead, for all folk were abed
    and still would slumber long.
     
     
    He knocked as he passed on doors locked fast,
    and called and cried in vain,
    Till he came to an inn that had light within,
    and tapped at a window-pane.
    A drowsy cook gave a surly look,
    and 'What do you want?' said he.
    'I want fire and gold and songs of old
    and red wine flowing free!'
     
     
    'You won't get them here', said the cook with a leer,
    'but you may come inside.
    Silver I lack and silk to my back—
    maybe I'll let you bide'.
    A silver gift the latch to lift,
    a pearl to pass the door;
    For a seat by the cook in the ingle-nook
    it cost him twenty more.
     
     
    For hunger or drouth naught passed his mouth
    till he gave both crown and cloak;
    And all that he got, in an earthen pot
    broken and black with smoke,
    Was porridge cold and two days old
    to eat with a wooden spoon.
    For puddings of Yule with plums, poor fool,
    he arrived so much too soon:
    An unwary guest on a lunatic quest
    from the Mountains of the Moon.

7
THE STONE TROLL

     
    Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
    And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
    For many a year he had gnawed it near,
    For meat was hard to come by.
    Done by! Gum by!
    In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
    And meat was hard to come by.
     
     
    Up came Tom with his big boots on.
    Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
    For it looks like the shin o' roy nuncle Tim,
    As should be a-lyin' in graveyard.
    Caveyard! Paveyard!
    This many a year has Tim been gone,
    And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard'.
     
     
    'My lad', said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
    But what be bones that lie in a hole?
    Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
    Afore I found his shinbone.
    Tinbone! Thinbone!
    He can spare a share for a poor old troll;
    For he don't need his shinbone'.
     
     
    Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
    Without axin' leave should go makin' free
    With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
    So hand the old bone over!
    Rover! Trover!
    Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
    So hand the old bone over!'
     
     
    'For a couple o' pins', says Troll, and grins,
    'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
    A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
    I'll try my teeth on thee now.
    Нее now! See now!
    I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
    I've a mind to dine on thee now'.
     
     
    But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
    He found his hands had hold of naught.
    Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
    And gave him the boot to larn him.
    Warn him! Darn him!
    A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
    Would be the way to larn him.
     
     
    But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
    Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
    As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
    For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
    Peel it! Heal it!
    Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
    And he knew his toes could feel it.
     
     
    Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
    And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
    But Troll don't care, and he's still there
    With the bone he boned from its owner.
    Doner! Boner!
    Troll's old seat is still the same,
    And the bone he boned from its owner!

8
PERRY-THE-WINKLE

     
    The Lonely Troll he sat on a stone
    and sang a mournful lay:
    'O why, O why must I live on my own
    in the hills of Faraway?
    My folk are gone beyond recall
    and take no thought of me;
    alone I'm left, the last of all
    from Weathertop to the Sea'.
     
     
    'I steal no gold, I drink no beer,
    I eat no kind of meat;
    but People slam their doors in fear,
    whenever they hear my feet.
    O how I wish that they were neat,
    and my hands were not so rough!
    Yet my heart is soft, my smile is sweet,
    and my cooking good enough.'
     
     
    'Come, come!' he thought, 'this will not do!
    I must go and find a friend;
    a-walking soft I'll wander through
    the Shire from end to end'.
    Down he went, and he walked all night
    with his feet in boots of fur;
    to Delving he came in the morning light,
    when folk were just astir.
     
     
    He looked around, and who did he meet
    but old Mrs. Bunce and all
    with umbrella and basket walking the street;
    and he smiled and stopped to call:
    'Good morning, ma'am! Good day to you!
    I hope I find you well?'
    But she dropped umbrella and basket too,
    and yelled a frightful yell.
     
     
    Old Pott the Mayor was strolling near;
    when he heard that awful sound,
    he turned all purple and pink with fear,
    and dived down underground.
    The Lonely Troll was hurt and sad:
    'Don't go!' he gently said,
    but old Mrs. Bunce ran home like mad
    and hid beneath her bed.
     
     
    The Troll went on to the market-place
    and peeped above the stalls;
    the sheep went wild when they saw his face,
    and the geese flew over the walls.
    Old Farmer Hogg he spilled his ale,
    Bill Butcher threw a knife,
    and Grip his dog, he turned his tail
    and ran to save his life.
     
     
    The old Troll sadly sat and wept
    outside the Lockholes gate,
    and Perry-the-Winkle up he crept
    and patted him on the pate.
    'O why do you weep, you great big lump?
    You're better outside than in!'
    He gave the Troll a friendly thump,
    and laughed to see him grin.
     
     
    'O Perry-the-Winkle boy', he cried,
    'come, you're the lad for me!
    Now if you're willing to take a ride,
    I'll carry you home to tea'.
    He jumped on his back and held on tight,
    and 'Off you go!' said he;
    and the Winkle had a feast that night,
    and sat on the old Troll's knee.
     
     
    There were pikelets, there was buttered toast,
    and jam, and cream, and cake,
    and the Winkle strove to eat the most,
    though his buttons all should break.
    The kettle sang, the fire was hot,
    the pot was large and brown,
    and the Winkle tried to drink the lot,
    in tea though he should drown.
     
     
    When full and tight were coat and skin,
    they rested without speech,
    till the old Troll said: 'I'll now begin
    the baker's art to teach,
    the making of beautiful cramsome bread,
    of bannocks light and brown;
    and then you can sleep on a heather-bed
    with pillows of owlets' down'.
     
     
    'Young Winkle, where've you been?' they said.
    'I've been to a fulsome tea,
    and I feel so fat, for I have fed
    on cramsome bread', said he.
    'But where, my lad, in the Shire was that?
    Or out in Bree?' said they.
    But Winkle he up and answered flat:
    'I aint a-going to say'.
     
     
    'But I know where', said Peeping Jack,
    'I watched him ride away:
    he went upon the old Troll's back
    to the hills of Faraway'.
    Then all the People went with a will,
    by pony, cart, or moke,
    until they came to a house in a hill
    and saw a chimney smoke.
     
     
    They hammered upon the old Troll's door.
    'A beautiful cramsome cake
    O bake for us, please, or two, or more;
    O bake!' they cried, 'O bake!'
    'Go home, go home!' the old Troll said.
    'I never invited you.
    Only on Thursdays I bake my bread,
    and only for a few'.
     
     
    'Go home! Go home! There's some mistake.
    My house is far too small;
    and I've no pikelets, cream, or cake:
    the Winkle has eaten all!
    You Jack, and Hogg, old Bunce and Pott
    I wish no more to see.
    Be off! Be off now all the lot!
    The Winkle's the boy for me!'
     
     
    Now Perry-the-Winkle grew so fat
    through eating of cramsome bread,
    his weskit bust, and never a hat
    would sit upon his head;
    for Every Thursday he went to tea,
    and sat on the kitchen floor,
    and smaller the old Troll seemed to be,
    as he grew more and more.
     
     
    The Winkle a Baker great became,
    as still is said in song;
    from the Sea to Bree there went the fame
    of his bread both short and long.
    But it weren't so good as the cramsome bread;
    no butter so rich and free,
    as Every Thursday the old Troll spread
    for Perry-the-Winkle's tea.

8
PERRY-THE-WINKLE

     
    The Lonely Troll he sat on a stone
    and sang a mournful lay:
    'O why, O why must I live on my own
    in the hills of Faraway?
    My folk are gone beyond recall
    and take no thought of me;
    alone I'm left, the last of all
    from Weathertop to the Sea'.
     
     
    'I steal no gold, I drink no beer,
    I eat no kind of meat;
    but People slam their doors in fear,
    whenever they hear my feet.
    O how I wish that they were neat,
    and my hands were not so rough!
    Yet my heart is soft, my smile is sweet,
    and my cooking good enough.'
     
     
    'Come, come!' he thought, 'this will not do!
    I must go and find a friend;
    a-walking soft I'll wander through
    the Shire from end to end'.
    Down he went, and he walked all night
    with his feet in boots of fur;
    to Delving he came in the morning light,
    when folk were just astir.
     
     
    He looked around, and who did he meet
    but old Mrs. Bunce and all
    with umbrella and basket walking the street;
    and he smiled and stopped to call:
    'Good morning, ma'am! Good day to you!
    I hope I find you well?'
    But she dropped umbrella and basket too,
    and yelled a frightful yell.
     
     
    Old Pott the Mayor was strolling near;
    when he heard that awful sound,
    he turned all purple and pink with fear,
    and dived down underground.
    The Lonely Troll was hurt and sad:
    'Don't go!' he gently said,
    but old Mrs. Bunce ran home like mad
    and hid beneath her bed.
     
     
    The Troll went on to the market-place
    and peeped above the stalls;
    the sheep went wild when they saw his face,
    and the geese flew over the walls.
    Old Farmer Hogg he spilled his ale,
    Bill Butcher threw a knife,
    and Grip his dog, he turned his tail
    and ran to save his life.
     
     
    The old Troll sadly sat and wept
    outside the Lockholes gate,
    and Perry-the-Winkle up he crept
    and patted him on the pate.
    'O why do you weep, you great big lump?
    You're better outside than in!'
    He gave the Troll a friendly thump,
    and laughed to see him grin.
     
     
    'O Perry-the-Winkle boy', he cried,
    'come, you're the lad for me!
    Now if you're willing to take a ride,
    I'll carry you home to tea'.
    He jumped on his back and held on tight,
    and 'Off you go!' said he;
    and the Winkle had a feast that night,
    and sat on the old Troll's knee.
     
     
    There were pikelets, there was buttered toast,
    and jam, and cream, and cake,
    and the Winkle strove to eat the most,
    though his buttons all should break.
    The kettle sang, the fire was hot,
    the pot was large and brown,
    and the Winkle tried to drink the lot,
    in tea though he should drown.
     
     
    When full and tight were coat and skin,
    they rested without speech,
    till the old Troll said: 'I'll now begin
    the baker's art to teach,
    the making of beautiful cramsome bread,
    of bannocks light and brown;
    and then you can sleep on a heather-bed
    with pillows of owlets' down'.
     
     
    'Young Winkle, where've you been?' they said.
    'I've been to a fulsome tea,
    and I feel so fat, for I have fed
    on cramsome bread', said he.
    'But where, my lad, in the Shire was that?
    Or out in Bree?' said they.
    But Winkle he up and answered flat:
    'I aint a-going to say'.
     
     
    'But I know where', said Peeping Jack,
    'I watched him ride away:
    he went upon the old Troll's back
    to the hills of Faraway'.
    Then all the People went with a will,
    by pony, cart, or moke,
    until they came to a house in a hill
    and saw a chimney smoke.
     
     
    They hammered upon the old Troll's door.
    'A beautiful cramsome cake
    O bake for us, please, or two, or more;
    O bake!' they cried, 'O bake!'
    'Go home, go home!' the old Troll said.
    'I never invited you.
    Only on Thursdays I bake my bread,
    and only for a few'.
     
     
    'Go home! Go home! There's some mistake.
    My house is far too small;
    and I've no pikelets, cream, or cake:
    the Winkle has eaten all!
    You Jack, and Hogg, old Bunce and Pott
    I wish no more to see.
    Be off! Be off now all the lot!
    The Winkle's the boy for me!'
     
     
    Now Perry-the-Winkle grew so fat
    through eating of cramsome bread,
    his weskit bust, and never a hat
    would sit upon his head;
    for Every Thursday he went to tea,
    and sat on the kitchen floor,
    and smaller the old Troll seemed to be,
    as he grew more and more.
     
     
    The Winkle a Baker great became,
    as still is said in song;
    from the Sea to Bree there went the fame
    of his bread both short and long.
    But it weren't so good as the cramsome bread;
    no butter so rich and free,
    as Every Thursday the old Troll spread
    for Perry-the-Winkle's tea.

9
THE MEWLIPS

     
    The shadows where the Mewlips dwell
    Are dark and wet as ink,
    And slow and softly rings their bell,
    As in the slime you sink.
     
     
    You sink into the slime, who dare
    To knock upon their door,
    While down the grinning gargoyles stare
    And noisome waters pour.
     
     
    Beside the rotting river-strand
    The drooping willows weep,
    And gloomily the gorcrows stand
    Croaking in their sleep.
     
     
    Over the Merlock Mountains a long and weary way,
    In a mouldy valley where the trees are grey,
    By a dark pool's borders without wind or tide,
    Moonless and sunless, the Mewlips hide.
     
     
    The cellars where the Mewlips sit
    Are deep and dank and cold
    With single sickly candle lit;
    And there they count their gold.
     
     
    Their walls are wet, their ceilings drip;
    Their feet upon the floor
    Go softly with a squish-flap-flip,
    As they sidle to the door.
     
     
    They peep out slyly; through a crack
    Their feeling fingers creep,
    And when they've finished, in a sack
    Your bones they lake to keep.
     
     
    Beyond the Merlock Mountains, a long and lonely road.
    Through the spider-shadows and the marsh of Tode,
    And through the wood of hanging trees and the gallows-weed,
    You go to find the Mewlips – and the Mewlips feed.
     

10
OLIPHAUNT

     
    Grey as a mouse,
    Big as a house,
    Nose like a snake,
    I make the earth shake,
    As I tramp through the grass;
    Trees crack as I pass.
    With horns in my mouth
    I walk in the South,
    Flapping big ears.
    Beyond count of years
    I stump round and round,
    Never lie on the ground,
    Not even to die.
    Oliphaunt am I,
    Biggest of all,
    Huge, old, and tall.
    If ever you'd met me,
    You wouldn't forget me.
    If you never do,
    You won't think I'm true;
    But old Oliphaunt am I.
    And I never lie.

11
FASTITOCALON

     
    Look, there is Fastitocalon!
    An island good to land upon,
    Although 'tis rather bare.
    Come, leave the sea! And let us run,
    Or dance, or lie down in the sun!
    See, gulls are sitting there!
    Beware!
    Gulls do not sink.
    There they may sit, or strut and prink:
    Their part it is to tip the wink,
    If anyone should dare
    Upon that isle to settle,
    Or only for a while to get
    Relief from sickness or the wet,
    Or maybe boil a kettle.
    Ah, foolish folk, who land on HIM,
    And little fires proceed to trim
    And hope perhaps for tea!
    It may be that His shell is thick,
    He seems to sleep; but He is quick,
    And floats now in the sea
    With guile;
    And when He hears their tapping feet,
    Or faintly feels the sudden heat,
    With smile
    HE dives,
    And promptly turning upside-down
    He tips them off, and deep they drown,
    And lose their silly lives
    To their surprise,
    Be wise!
    There are many monsters in the Sea,
    But none so perilous as HE,
    Old horny Fastitocalon,
    Whose mighty kindred all have gone,
    The last of the old Turtle-fish.
    So if to save your life you wish
    Then I advise:
    Pay heed to sailors' ancient lore,
    Set foot on no uncharted shore!
    Or better still,
    Your days at peace on Middle-earth
    In mirth
    Fulfill!
     

12
THE CAT

     
    The fat cat on the mat
    may seem to dream
    of nice mice that suffice
    for him, or cream;
    but he free, maybe,
    walks in thought
    unbowed, proud, where loud
    roared and fought
    his kin, lean and slim,
    or deep in den
    in the East feasted on beasts
    and tender men.
    The giant lion with iron
    claw in paw,
    and huge ruthless tooth
    in gory jaw;
    the paid dark-starred,
    fleet upon feet,
    that oft soft from aloft
    leaps on his meat
    where woods loom in gloom-
    far now they be,
    fierce and free,
    and tamed is he;
    but fat cat on the mat
    kept as a pet,
    he does not forget.
     

13
SHADOW-BRIDE

     
    There was a man who dwelt alone,
    as day and night went past
    he sat as still as carven stone,
    and yet no shadow cast.
    The white owls perched upon his head
    beneath the winter moon;
    they wiped their beaks and thought him dead
    under the stars of June.
     
     
    There came a lady clad in grey
    in the twilight shining:
    one moment she would stand and stay,
    her hair with flowers entwining.
    He woke, as had he sprung of stone,
    and broke the spell that bound him;
    he clasped her fast, both flesh and bone,
    and wrapped her shadow round him.
     
     
    There never more she walks her ways
    by sun or moon or star;
    she dwells below where neither days
    nor any nights there are.
    But once a year when caverns yawn
    and hidden things awake,
    they dance together then till dawn
    and a single shadow make.

14
THE HOARD

     
    When the moon was new and the sun young
    of silver and gold the gods sung:
    in the green grass they silver spilled,
    and the white waters they with gold filled.
    Ere the pit was dug or Hell yawned,
    ere dwarf was bred or dragon spawned,
    there were Elves of old, and strong spells
    under green hills in hollow dells
    they sang as they wrought many fair things,
    and the bright crowns of the Elf-kings.
    But their doom fell, and their song waned,
    by iron hewn and by steel chained.
    Greed that sang not, nor with mouth smiled,
    in dark holes their wealth piled,
    graven silver and carven gold:
    over Elvenhome the shadow rolled.
     
     
    There was an old dwarf in a dark cave,
    to silver and gold his fingers clave;
    with hammer and tongs and anvil-stone
    he worked his hands to the hard bone.
    and coins he made, and strings of rings,
    and thought to buy the power of kings.
    But his eyes grew dim and his ears dull
    and the skin yellow on his old skull;
    through his bony claw with a pale sheen
    the stony jewels slipped unseen.
    No feet he heard, though the earth quaked.
    when the young dragon his thirst slaked.
    and the stream smoked at his dark door.
    The flames hissed on the dank floor,
    and he died alone in the red fire;
    his bones were ashes in the hot mire.
     
     
    There was an old dragon under grey stone;
    his red eyes blinked as he lay alone.
    His joy was dead and his youth spent,
    he was knobbed and wrinkled, and his limbs bent
    in the long years to his gold chained;
    in his heart's furnace the fire waned.
    To his belly's slime gems stuck thick,
    silver and gold he would snuff and lick:
    he knew the place of the least ring
    beneath the shadow of his black wing.
    Of thieves he thought on his hard bed,
    and dreamed that on their flesh he fed,
    their bones crushed, and their blood drank:
    his ears drooped and his breath sank.
    Mail-rings rang. He heard them not.
    A voice echoed in his deep grot:
    a young warrior with a bright sword
    called him forth to defend his hoard.
    His teeth were knives, and of horn his hide,
    but iron tore him, and his flame died.
     
     
    There was an old king on a high throne:
    his white beard lay on knees of bone;
    his mouth savoured neither meat nor drink,
    nor his ears song; he could only think
    of his huge chest with carven lid
    where pale gems and gold lay hid
    in secret treasury in the dark ground;
    its strong doors were iron-bound.
    The swords of his thanes were dull with rust,
    his glory fallen, his rule unjust,
    his halls hollow, and his bowers cold,
    but king he was of elvish gold.
    He heard not the horns in the mountain-pass,
    he smelt not the blood on the trodden grass,
    but his halls were burned, his kingdom lost;
    in a cold pit his bones were tossed.
     
     
    There is an old hoard in a dark rock,
    forgotten behind doors none can unlock;
    that grim gate no man can pass.
    On the mound grows the green grass;
    there sheep feed and the larks soar,
    and the wind blows from the sea-shore.
    The old hoard the Night shall keep,
    while earth waits and the Elves sleep.