Born among mere roots
Indeed, folks speak of swift rangers,
Abroad, so distant and far,
Further and further, where the Sun rises,
Unto the East, deep and so much strange,
Which sort of beasts might wander there, I ask?
Creatures of tales, we assume,
Which we dread and want not,
Within the wooden fence of a Hobbit-home,
So, those are lands of the dawn,
Blessed by the first rays of the morning.
Sleep-less nights they must suffer,
Over there, I think and wonder,
For of perils such murmurs are full,
But also of gallant courage,
Spirit of old, so rare,
Ideals that fight foes and the bad keep at bay,
Having defences of hard stone,
And marble, magnificent and resilient as those who had raised the stronghold,
Bloodline of note, surely,
What would one of our people have to do with kings and lords?
Akin kind to the dwellers of the old North,
Now wasted and bare,
From which salvation is to come anew,
In the words of prophecies,
That we may sometimes hear,
Told perhaps by queer travellers who visit the earldom,
The merry Shire of ours,
Envy and pride for us,
Apart from grief and woe,
And very little would we make good usage of bows and swords.
Despite the hatred of some lots,
We still dwell in peace,
Safe and sound,
Buoyant and happy,
Being our ways clear from threats,
Nay, very few dare bring havoc or worries here,
Some have seen silent guards patrol the entrance to our land,
Invisible help, not requested nor known,
Rangers of the forest, used to adversity and vigilant nights,
Among whom a leader must have born, in the midst of hurry and roots.
