Oh how I miss the fields of the Shire
Where my memories once dwelt;
The sweet fragrance of wavering buttercups,
and gentle swinging of the quiver trees;
The soft tottering of hobbit-chldren,
in the clear-blue running stream.
At nights in Spring the oriole chirp
and the moonbeams lightened the ground;
Here and there stroll folks of old
on dirt roads crowned with vine.
Now I landed in a Quest of doom,
awaiting nothing else but gloom;
with blades unsheathed in ultimate alarm,
and in each step expecting harm;
to fulfil the Quest in weary and pain,
with doubt if the Shire would
will ever be the same again.
Still I brought with me
memories of the homeland,
the sweet frangrance of wavering buttercups,
and gentle swinging of the quiver trees.