__Of Bree__
Rain beat agianst the road,
Weary travelers wandered,
Looking for somewhere to rest their load,
As the day grew long and longer.
They wished to rest their weary feet,
Up ahead a sign did swing,
The Prancing Pony and their gaze did meet,
It set them in the mood to sing.
Close shaves, the Elven Folk,
Had brought them there to Bree,
Where Hobbits hang their cloaks
Next to Men for all to see.
They came in to rest by the fire,
To drain cups of fine ale,
Butterbur's compliments semed never to tire
A stay here could turn a rosy face from pale.
But in this cozy atmosphere,
There was but one blight,
A Ranger, taking in what he can hear,
From his table aloof from the light.
This rugged stranger by the name of Strider,
Dressed in worn clothing, his hair unruly,
By his side he side he kept a sword (he could not hide her),
As he explained all in private cooly.
Suspicous they were,
They didn't believe him to be true,
But the final word came from the hand of Butterbur,
He had a letter: 'To Frodo, From Gandalf, from Me to You'
The letter verified the Ranger's claims,
Strider was to be their guide,
He was supposed to lessen their pains,
Through lands leading them he would glide.
But fear not Little Ones,
Soon he will be dear to your hearts,
Before the days are done
From his side you will wish not to part
Rain beat agianst the road,
Weary travelers wandered,
Looking for somewhere to rest their load,
As the day grew long and longer.
They wished to rest their weary feet,
Up ahead a sign did swing,
The Prancing Pony and their gaze did meet,
It set them in the mood to sing.
Close shaves, the Elven Folk,
Had brought them there to Bree,
Where Hobbits hang their cloaks
Next to Men for all to see.
They came in to rest by the fire,
To drain cups of fine ale,
Butterbur's compliments semed never to tire
A stay here could turn a rosy face from pale.
But in this cozy atmosphere,
There was but one blight,
A Ranger, taking in what he can hear,
From his table aloof from the light.
This rugged stranger by the name of Strider,
Dressed in worn clothing, his hair unruly,
By his side he side he kept a sword (he could not hide her),
As he explained all in private cooly.
Suspicous they were,
They didn't believe him to be true,
But the final word came from the hand of Butterbur,
He had a letter: 'To Frodo, From Gandalf, from Me to You'
The letter verified the Ranger's claims,
Strider was to be their guide,
He was supposed to lessen their pains,
Through lands leading them he would glide.
But fear not Little Ones,
Soon he will be dear to your hearts,
Before the days are done
From his side you will wish not to part