All character & place names copyright J. R. R. Tolkien & The Tolkien Estate

Rookery

In the last days of burgeoning Summer,
When blackberries on the bramble are ripe,
When the bumbles are dancing the mummer,
Maggot likes to sit with his pipe.
And remember his days spent a'courting,
A sweet, bonny lass just in bloom,
In the ways that his grandfather taught him,
Not too much and never too soon.

As he sat one such day after noontide,
Most amused by a stubbon hover-fly,
He peered through his smoke and he soon spied,
A swirling black cloud in the sky.
It arose from afar over yonder,
Past Buckland and way East of the Shire,
At first he was given to wonder,
If it weren't the Old Forest on fire.

But no smoke cloud would so twist and spiral,
Folding in on itself as it banks,
Turning backwards before its arrival,
Doing suchlike with 'cronks' and with 'cranks'.
For now a harsh sound had a'reached him,
The honking of rooks on the wing,
But to carry so far would be staggerin',
He'd not seen so tremendous a thing.

For a minute or two he stood gaping,
And unbothered, his pipe it went out.
The flock it was arrowhead shaping,
Its point being this way about.
With a great mighty 'caw' it came westwards,
Swooping towards the boundary line,
In moments it left behind dark woods,
And was over the fast Brandywine.

'On my life' says Maggot astounded,
Transfixed by the ebony throng.
'If ever that flock here was grounded,
It'd be farewell to old Bamfurlong.'
'Maggot my lad,' says our farmer,
to himself as no other's about,
'I've a missus and no crow shall harm her,
Not while I'm here alive to sort out,

These mangy old rooks, if they be such,
And not something worser, disguised.
I'll give 'em what for with this here crutch.
I'll show 'em whose boss, damn their eyes.'
And so saying he shook at them his fist,
Balled up and bright pink like a ham.
That wasn't something the crows missed,
As fields their beady eyes scanned.

With a roll and a whoosh they came diving,
Straight down towards Maggot, alone,
Who gripped a stout staff to be driving,
The grim feathered beasts from his home.
'Be off, you black vermin!' he shouted,
As round and about him they flew.
They eyed him and very much doubted,
Much harm the small fellow could do.

Then a great scabious raven alighted,
And a raw, squarking challenge it gave,
But Maggot, he wouldn't be slighted,
And knocked off its head with his stave.
'If that was the bestest amongst you,'
He laughed at the circling flock,
'Then you'd better get going afore I do,
And give all your heads a sound knock!'

With much swearing in crow-talk they lifted,
Taking off up away on the wing.
At which, though he wasn't so gifted,
The farmer he started to sing;
'Away to your rookery, old crows,
The Brandywine hasten to cross,
If any one doesn't, then he knows,
He'll get short shrift, same as your boss!'

He made his way back to the farmhouse,
After a'watching them go.
'Tut, look at you!' scolded his spouse,
'You look like a tatty scarecrow!'
He gave her a kiss on the forehead,
'You're right' says he, starting to smirk,
'I'll stick me to farming in future,
Crow-scaring is too much hard work!'