The Adventures of Tom Bombadil. Christina Scull

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      on knotted willow-roots he sat in sunny weather,

      drying his yellow boots and his draggled feather.

      Up woke Willow-man, began upon his singing,

      sang Tom fast asleep under branches swinging;

      in a crack caught him tight: snick! it closed together,

      trapped Tom Bombadil, coat and hat and feather.

      ‘Ha, Tom Bombadil! What be you a-thinking,

      peeping inside my tree, watching me a-drinking

      deep in my wooden house, tickling me with feather,

      dripping wet down my face like a rainy weather?’

      ‘You let me out again, Old Man Willow!

      I am stiff lying here; they’re no sort of pillow,

      your hard crooked roots. Drink your river-water!

      Go back to sleep again like the River-daughter!’

      Willow-man let him loose when he heard him speaking;

      locked fast his wooden house, muttering and creaking,

      whispering inside the tree. Out from willow-dingle

      Tom went walking on up the Withywindle.

      Under the forest-eaves he sat a while a-listening:

      on the boughs piping birds were chirruping and whistling.

      Butterflies about his head went quivering and winking,

      until grey clouds came up, as the sun was sinking.

      Then Tom hurried on. Rain began to shiver,

      round rings spattering in the running river;

      a wind blew, shaken leaves chilly drops were dripping;

      into a sheltering hole Old Tom went skipping.

      Out came Badger-brock with his snowy forehead

      and his dark blinking eyes. In the hill he quarried

      with his wife and many sons. By the coat they caught him,

      pulled him inside their earth, down their tunnels brought him.

      Inside their secret house, there they sat a-mumbling:

      ‘Ho, Tom Bombadil! Where have you come tumbling,

      bursting in the front-door? Badger-folk have caught you.

      You’ll never find it out, the way that we have brought you!’

      ‘Now, old Badger-brock, do you hear me talking?

      You show me out at once! I must be a-walking.

      Show me to your backdoor under briar-roses;

      then clean grimy paws, wipe your earthy noses!

      Go back to sleep again on your straw pillow,

      like fair Goldberry and Old Man Willow!’

      Then all the Badger-folk said: ‘We beg your pardon!’

      They showed Tom out again to their thorny garden,

      went back and hid themselves, a-shivering and a-shaking,

      blocked up all their doors, earth together raking.

      Rain had passed. The sky was clear, and in the summer-gloaming

      Old Tom Bombadil laughed as he came homing,

      unlocked his door again, and opened up a shutter.

      In the kitchen round the lamp moths began to flutter;

      Tom through the window saw waking stars come winking,

      and the new slender moon early westward sinking.

      Dark came under Hill. Tom, he lit a candle;

      upstairs creaking went, turned the door-handle.

      ‘Hoo, Tom Bombadil! Look what night has brought you!

      I’m here behind the door. Now at last I’ve caught you!

      You’d forgotten Barrow-wight dwelling in the old mound

      up there on hill-top with the ring of stones round.

      He’s got loose again. Under earth he’ll take you.

      Poor Tom Bombadil, pale and cold he’ll make you!’

      ‘Go out! Shut the door, and never come back after!

      Take away gleaming eyes, take your hollow laughter!

      Go back to grassy mound, on your stony pillow

      lay down your bony head, like Old Man Willow,

      like young Goldberry, and Badger-folk in burrow!

      Go back to buried gold and forgotten sorrow!’

      Out fled Barrow-wight through the window leaping,

      through the yard, over wall like a shadow sweeping,

      up hill wailing went back to leaning stone-rings,

      back under lonely mound, rattling his bone-rings.

      Old Tom Bombadil lay upon his pillow

      sweeter than Goldberry, quieter than the Willow,

      snugger than the Badger-folk or the Barrow-dwellers;

      slept like a humming-top, snored like a bellows.

      He woke in morning-light, whistled like a starling,

      sang, ‘Come, derry-dol, merry-dol, my darling!’

      He clapped on his battered hat, boots, and coat and feather;

      opened the window wide to the sunny weather.

      Wise old Bombadil, he was a wary fellow;

      bright blue his jacket was, and his boots were yellow.

      None ever caught old Tom in upland or in dingle,

      walking the forest-paths, or by the Withywindle,

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