The Adventures of Tom Bombadil. Christina Scull

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      ‘Blue now for Tom,’ he said, ‘a merry hue and lasting!’

      Rings swirled round his boat, he saw the bubbles quiver.

      Tom slapped his oar, smack! at a shadow in the river.

      ‘Hoosh! Tom Bombadil! ’Tis long since last I met you.

      Turned water-boatman, eh? What if I upset you?’

      ‘What? Why, Whisker-lad, I’d ride you down the river.

      My fingers on your back would set your hide a-shiver.’

      ‘Pish, Tom Bombadil! I’ll go and tell my mother;

      “Call all our kin to come, father, sister, brother!

      Tom’s gone mad as a coot with wooden legs: he’s paddling

      down Withywindle stream, an old tub a-straddling!”’

      ‘I’ll give your otter-fell to Barrow-wights. They’ll taw you!

      Then smother you in gold-rings! Your mother if she saw you,

      she’d never know her son, unless ’twas by a whisker.

      Nay, don’t tease old Tom, until you be far brisker!’

      ‘Whoosh!’ said otter-lad, river-water spraying

      over Tom’s hat and all; set the boat a-swaying,

      dived down under it, and by the bank lay peering,

      till Tom’s merry song faded out of hearing.

      Old Swan of Elvet-isle sailed past him proudly,

      gave Tom a black look, snorted at him loudly.

      Tom laughed: ‘You old cob, do you miss your feather?

      Give me a new one then! The old was worn by weather.

      Could you speak a fair word, I would love you dearer:

      long neck and dumb throat, but still a haughty sneerer!

      If one day the King returns, in upping he may take you,

      brand your yellow bill, and less lordly make you!’

      Old Swan huffed his wings, hissed, and paddled faster;

      in his wake bobbing on Tom went rowing after.

      Tom came to Withy-weir. Down the river rushing

      foamed into Windle-reach, a-bubbling and a-splashing;

      bore Tom over stone spinning like a windfall,

      bobbing like a bottle-cork, to the hythe at Grindwall.

      ‘Hoy! Here’s Woodman Tom with his billy-beard on!’

      laughed all the little folk of Hays-end and Breredon.

      ‘Ware, Tom! We’ll shoot you dead with our bows and arrows!

      We don’t let Forest-folk nor bogies from the Barrows

      cross over Brandywine by cockle-boat nor ferry.’

      ‘Fie, little fatbellies! Don’t ye make so merry!

      I’ve seen hobbit-folk digging holes to hide ’em,

      frightened if a horny goat or a badger eyed ’em,

      afeared of the moony-beams, their old shadows shunning.

      I’ll call the orks on you: that’ll send you running!’

      ‘You may call, Woodman Tom. And you can talk your beard off.

      Three arrows in your hat! You we’re not afeared of!

      Where would you go to now? If for beer you’re making,

      the barrels aint deep enough in Breredon for your slaking!’

      ‘Away over Brandywine by Shirebourn I’d be going,

      but too swift for cockle-boat the river now is flowing.

      I’d bless little folk that took me in their wherry,

      wish them evenings fair and many mornings merry.’

      Red flowed the Brandywine; with flame the river kindled,

      as sun sank beyond the Shire, and then to grey it dwindled.

      Mithe Steps empty stood. None was there to greet him.

      Silent the Causeway lay. Said Tom: ‘A merry meeting!’

      Tom stumped along the road, as the light was failing.

      Rushey lamps gleamed ahead. He heard a voice him hailing.

      ‘Whoa there!’ Ponies stopped, wheels halted sliding.

      Tom went plodding past, never looked beside him.

      ‘Ho there! beggarman tramping in the Marish!

      What’s your business here? Hat all stuck with arrows!

      Someone’s warned you off, caught you at your sneaking?

      Come here! Tell me now what it is you’re seeking!

      Shire-ale, I’ll be bound, though you’ve not a penny.

      I’ll bid them lock their doors, and then you won’t get any!’

      ‘Well, well, Muddy-feet! From one that’s late for meeting

      away back by the Mithe that’s a surly greeting!

      You old farmer fat that cannot walk for wheezing,

      cart-drawn like a sack, ought to be more pleasing.

      Penny-wise tub-on-legs! A beggar can’t be chooser,

      or else I’d bid you go, and you would be the loser.

      Come, Maggot! Help me up! A tankard now you owe me.

      Even in cockshut light an old friend should know me!’

      Laughing they drove away, in Rushey never halting,

      though the inn open stood and they could smell the malting.

      They turned down Maggot’s Lane, rattling and bumping,

      Tom in the farmer’s cart dancing round and jumping.

      Stars shone on Bamfurlong, and Maggot’s СКАЧАТЬ