Wheep! Wheep!
Fire! Death! Despair!
For never more shall his breast beat!
In deeping tomb he lies in sleep!
Wheep! Wheep!
Ever more shall sorrow reign!
For lips are white and hand is cold!
And no earthly amount of gold
Shall mend dry bones
Nor spirit hold!
In battle great he was overwhelmed
With joy of combat 'pon his lips
Face of fiend with battle's lust
And eyes of rage, set deep and black
Oh who now to gaze upon his lifeless form
In robes of purple silks adorned
That ringed hand could wield a sword
Or in the foe could reap such gore.
Yet on that day in Dimril Dale
When scalding sun did shine so pale
He delt them blows all in a hale
And retorts rang off Mithril mail
His burnished helm did shine and burn
The light of sun it caught and turned
So his face could not be discerned.
With axe he smote their greatest chiefs
And though he fell once it was brief
But as his sword did run him through
The greatest lord of all the foes
A great horn sounded, fell and far
And it shone red, that nearest star
For fire that day was on the plain
A darkness to quench the brightest star
A flame to give no light at all
And acrid smoke of od'rous pitch
A demon from the savage Pit
Fell sword was swung, all wreathed with blaze
And twice he parried, the mighty lord
But though he slew the fearsom thing
His head did roll upon the grass
And coated in dust and evil ash.
And sun shone no more on burnished helm
And our men grieved and set up moan
Then rallied and, with ferocious tide
Set on by love and grief and hate
Did slay the foe and leave no life
And nary one escaped to tell the tale
Of that bloody day in Dimril Dale
When moon did blot out pale, white sun
And tell of how they were overrun.
But neither joy nor feast abode that day
For in the remnants of ashes gray
They retrieved their fallen lord
And on shield carried him away
With dirge upon their dirtied lips
Oblivious to both rise and dips.
Until to hall of carven stone, he was laid bare
And dressed in silk and satin fair
And spices perforated the air
And oil was rubbed in his hair.
His beard was braided with silver cord
And round his waist a belt of gold
With diamond, beryl, and rubies in
Amongst reliefs of his great kin.
Of marble was sarcophagus
A green color laced with white
And they carried him through tunnels black as night
Till they came to deepest hole
And there, by shining lamps of oil
They laid to rest their fallen lord
His likeness on his coffin carved
In rich furs he was enscarved.
They sealed the tomb and locked the door
And broke the key upon the floor
And there he sleeps with ne'r a snore
Till heir of halls shall be restored
And at that hour our fallen lord
Shall rise again from ageless sleep
And take again his mighty sword
And it shall ring upon the sward
And nere again shall we meet defeat
When our king comes to us once more.
Fire! Death! Despair!
For never more shall his breast beat!
In deeping tomb he lies in sleep!
Wheep! Wheep!
Ever more shall sorrow reign!
For lips are white and hand is cold!
And no earthly amount of gold
Shall mend dry bones
Nor spirit hold!
In battle great he was overwhelmed
With joy of combat 'pon his lips
Face of fiend with battle's lust
And eyes of rage, set deep and black
Oh who now to gaze upon his lifeless form
In robes of purple silks adorned
That ringed hand could wield a sword
Or in the foe could reap such gore.
Yet on that day in Dimril Dale
When scalding sun did shine so pale
He delt them blows all in a hale
And retorts rang off Mithril mail
His burnished helm did shine and burn
The light of sun it caught and turned
So his face could not be discerned.
With axe he smote their greatest chiefs
And though he fell once it was brief
But as his sword did run him through
The greatest lord of all the foes
A great horn sounded, fell and far
And it shone red, that nearest star
For fire that day was on the plain
A darkness to quench the brightest star
A flame to give no light at all
And acrid smoke of od'rous pitch
A demon from the savage Pit
Fell sword was swung, all wreathed with blaze
And twice he parried, the mighty lord
But though he slew the fearsom thing
His head did roll upon the grass
And coated in dust and evil ash.
And sun shone no more on burnished helm
And our men grieved and set up moan
Then rallied and, with ferocious tide
Set on by love and grief and hate
Did slay the foe and leave no life
And nary one escaped to tell the tale
Of that bloody day in Dimril Dale
When moon did blot out pale, white sun
And tell of how they were overrun.
But neither joy nor feast abode that day
For in the remnants of ashes gray
They retrieved their fallen lord
And on shield carried him away
With dirge upon their dirtied lips
Oblivious to both rise and dips.
Until to hall of carven stone, he was laid bare
And dressed in silk and satin fair
And spices perforated the air
And oil was rubbed in his hair.
His beard was braided with silver cord
And round his waist a belt of gold
With diamond, beryl, and rubies in
Amongst reliefs of his great kin.
Of marble was sarcophagus
A green color laced with white
And they carried him through tunnels black as night
Till they came to deepest hole
And there, by shining lamps of oil
They laid to rest their fallen lord
His likeness on his coffin carved
In rich furs he was enscarved.
They sealed the tomb and locked the door
And broke the key upon the floor
And there he sleeps with ne'r a snore
Till heir of halls shall be restored
And at that hour our fallen lord
Shall rise again from ageless sleep
And take again his mighty sword
And it shall ring upon the sward
And nere again shall we meet defeat
When our king comes to us once more.
