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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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