Читать книгу The Adventures of Tom Bombadil - Christina Scull - Страница 7

Old Tom Bombadil was a merry fellow;

bright blue his jacket was and his boots were yellow,

green were his girdle and his breeches all of leather;

he wore in his tall hat a swan-wing feather.

He lived up under Hill, where the Withywindle

ran from a grassy well down into the dingle.

Old Tom in summertime walked about the meadows

gathering the buttercups, running after shadows,

tickling the bumblebees that buzzed among the flowers,

sitting by the waterside for hours upon hours.

There his beard dangled long down into the water:

up came Goldberry, the River-woman’s daughter;

pulled Tom’s hanging hair. In he went a-wallowing

under the water-lilies, bubbling and a-swallowing.

‘Hey, Tom Bombadil! Whither are you going?’

said fair Goldberry. ‘Bubbles you are blowing,

frightening the finny fish and the brown water-rat,

startling the dabchicks, and drowning your feather-hat!’

‘You bring it back again, there’s a pretty maiden!’

said Tom Bombadil. ‘I do not care for wading.

Go down! Sleep again where the pools are shady

far below willow-roots, little water-lady!’

Back to her mother’s house in the deepest hollow

swam young Goldberry. But Tom, he would not follow;

on knotted willow-roots he sat in sunny weather,

drying his yellow boots and his draggled feather.

Up woke Willow-man, began upon his singing,

sang Tom fast asleep under branches swinging;

in a crack caught him tight: snick! it closed together,

trapped Tom Bombadil, coat and hat and feather.

‘Ha, Tom Bombadil! What be you a-thinking,

peeping inside my tree, watching me a-drinking

deep in my wooden house, tickling me with feather,

dripping wet down my face like a rainy weather?’

‘You let me out again, Old Man Willow!

I am stiff lying here; they’re no sort of pillow,

your hard crooked roots. Drink your river-water!

Go back to sleep again like the River-daughter!’

Willow-man let him loose when he heard him speaking;

locked fast his wooden house, muttering and creaking,

whispering inside the tree. Out from willow-dingle

Tom went walking on up the Withywindle.

Under the forest-eaves he sat a while a-listening:

on the boughs piping birds were chirruping and whistling.

Butterflies about his head went quivering and winking,

until grey clouds came up, as the sun was sinking.

Then Tom hurried on. Rain began to shiver,

round rings spattering in the running river;

a wind blew, shaken leaves chilly drops were dripping;

into a sheltering hole Old Tom went skipping.

Out came Badger-brock with his snowy forehead

and his dark blinking eyes. In the hill he quarried

with his wife and many sons. By the coat they caught him,

pulled him inside their earth, down their tunnels brought him.

Inside their secret house, there they sat a-mumbling:

‘Ho, Tom Bombadil! Where have you come tumbling,

bursting in the front-door? Badger-folk have caught you.

You’ll never find it out, the way that we have brought you!’

‘Now, old Badger-brock, do you hear me talking?

You show me out at once! I must be a-walking.

Show me to your backdoor under briar-roses;

then clean grimy paws, wipe your earthy noses!

Go back to sleep again on your straw pillow,

like fair Goldberry and Old Man Willow!’

Then all the Badger-folk said: ‘We beg your pardon!’

They showed Tom out again to their thorny garden,

went back and hid themselves, a-shivering and a-shaking,

blocked up all their doors, earth together raking.

Rain had passed. The sky was clear, and in the summer-gloaming

Old Tom Bombadil laughed as he came homing,

unlocked his door again, and opened up a shutter.

In the kitchen round the lamp moths began to flutter;

Tom through the window saw waking stars come winking,

and the new slender moon early westward sinking.

Dark came under Hill. Tom, he lit a candle;

upstairs creaking went, turned the door-handle.

‘Hoo, Tom Bombadil! Look what night has brought you!

I’m here behind the door. Now at last I’ve caught you!

You’d forgotten Barrow-wight dwelling in the old mound

up there on hill-top with the ring of stones round.

He’s got loose again. Under earth he’ll take you.

Poor Tom Bombadil, pale and cold he’ll make you!’

‘Go out! Shut the door, and never come back after!

Take away gleaming eyes, take your hollow laughter!

Go back to grassy mound, on your stony pillow

lay down your bony head, like Old Man Willow,

like young Goldberry, and Badger-folk in burrow!

Go back to buried gold and forgotten sorrow!’

Out fled Barrow-wight through the window leaping,

through the yard, over wall like a shadow sweeping,

up hill wailing went back to leaning stone-rings,

back under lonely mound, rattling his bone-rings.

Old Tom Bombadil lay upon his pillow

sweeter than Goldberry, quieter than the Willow,

snugger than the Badger-folk or the Barrow-dwellers;

slept like a humming-top, snored like a bellows.

He woke in morning-light, whistled like a starling,

sang, ‘Come, derry-dol, merry-dol, my darling!’

He clapped on his battered hat, boots, and coat and feather;

opened the window wide to the sunny weather.

Wise old Bombadil, he was a wary fellow;

bright blue his jacket was, and his boots were yellow.

None ever caught old Tom in upland or in dingle,

walking the forest-paths, or by the Withywindle,

or out on the lily-pools in boat upon the water.

But one day Tom, he went and caught the River-daughter,

in green gown, flowing hair, sitting in the rushes,

singing old water-songs to birds upon the bushes.

He caught her, held her fast! Water-rats went scuttering

reeds hissed, herons cried, and her heart was fluttering.

Said Tom Bombadil: ‘Here’s my pretty maiden!

You shall come home with me! The table is all laden:

yellow cream, honeycomb, white bread and butter;

roses at the window-sill and peeping round the shutter.

You shall come under Hill! Never mind your mother

in her deep weedy pool: there you’ll find no lover!’

Old Tom Bombadil had a merry wedding,

crowned all with buttercups, hat and feather shedding;

his bride with forgetmenots and flag-lilies for garland

was robed all in silver-green. He sang like a starling,

hummed like a honey-bee, lilted to the fiddle,

clasping his river-maid round her slender middle.

Lamps gleamed within his house, and white was the bedding;

in the bright honey-moon Badger-folk came treading,

danced down under Hill, and Old Man Willow

tapped, tapped at window-pane, as they slept on the pillow,

on the bank in the reeds River-woman sighing

heard old Barrow-wight in his mound crying.

Old Tom Bombadil heeded not the voices,

taps, knocks, dancing feet, all the nightly noises;

slept till the sun arose, then sang like a starling:

‘Hey! Come derry-dol, merry-dol, my darling!’

sitting on the door-step chopping sticks of willow,

while fair Goldberry combed her tresses yellow.