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King Under the Mountain

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You pluck'd your harp with gentle hands

And charmed from it a song

Of wonders in far distant lands,

Of valiant heroes strong.

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Your golden harp stirred in my breast

A longing for adventure

And I, without my handkerchief,

As burglar forth did venture.

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O Thorin, let your fame live on,

Your faults be all forgotten...

To your burglar you will always be

King under the Mountain.

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