The Adventures of Tom Bombadil. Christina Scull

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,

      or out on the lily-pools in boat upon the water.

      But one day Tom, he went and caught the River-daughter,

      in green gown, flowing hair, sitting in the rushes,

      singing old water-songs to birds upon the bushes.

      He caught her, held her fast! Water-rats went scuttering

      reeds hissed, herons cried, and her heart was fluttering.

      Said Tom Bombadil: ‘Here’s my pretty maiden!

      You shall come home with me! The table is all laden:

      yellow cream, honeycomb, white bread and butter;

      roses at the window-sill and peeping round the shutter.

      You shall come under Hill! Never mind your mother

      in her deep weedy pool: there you’ll find no lover!’

      Old Tom Bombadil had a merry wedding,

      crowned all with buttercups, hat and feather shedding;

      his bride with forgetmenots and flag-lilies for garland

      was robed all in silver-green. He sang like a starling,

      hummed like a honey-bee, lilted to the fiddle,

      clasping his river-maid round her slender middle.

      Lamps gleamed within his house, and white was the bedding;

      in the bright honey-moon Badger-folk came treading,

      danced down under Hill, and Old Man Willow

      tapped, tapped at window-pane, as they slept on the pillow,

      on the bank in the reeds River-woman sighing

      heard old Barrow-wight in his mound crying.

      Old Tom Bombadil heeded not the voices,

      taps, knocks, dancing feet, all the nightly noises;

      slept till the sun arose, then sang like a starling:

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

      sitting on the door-step chopping sticks of willow,

      while fair Goldberry combed her tresses yellow.

      

      The old year was turning brown; the West Wind was calling;

      Tom caught a beechen leaf in the Forest falling.

      ‘I’ve caught a happy day blown me by the breezes!

      Why wait till morrow-year? I’ll take it when me pleases.

      This day I’ll mend my boat and journey as it chances

      west down the withy-stream, following my fancies!’

      Little Bird sat on twig. ‘Whillo, Tom! I heed you.

      I’ve a guess, I’ve a guess where your fancies lead you.

      Shall I go, shall I go, bring him word to meet you?’

      ‘No names, you tell-tale, or I’ll skin and eat you,

      babbling in every ear things that don’t concern you!

      If you tell Willow-man where I’ve gone, I’ll burn you,

      roast you on a willow-spit. That’ll end your prying!’

      Willow-wren cocked her tail, piped as she went flying:

      ‘Catch me first, catch me first! No names are needed.

      I’ll