The bright sunlight streaming
To envelop the meadow’s streaks of gold.
What is this place? Am I dreaming?
This is the Shire, home to young and old.
Hobbits have long dwelt here,
Among their gardens which they sow;
This is the place they hold dear
Every tree, hole and row.

Behold! A happy land
Where the little people dance and sing
Around the homes they built by hand
A beautiful and simple thing.

So do not disturb them,
Not one Hobbit lad or lass
For they are the life of leaf and stem —
The half-full of a glass.
Let the happy folks be
Alone in a world of men
And they will continue joyously
As we have always let them.