In Hobbiton there stands arrayed
In tattered cloak, with rusted blade
A bounder of some fine renown
His name is known throughout the town
He wears a shirt that once was blue
Now stained, it's lost a button too
And rather tight about the waist
He's not the sort who would make haste
He's may be shaky on his feet
But gladly smiles to folks he meets
By mainly folk inside an Inn
For Inns are where you'll find him in
A bounder who is fond of tales
But even fonder of an ale
He may watch out for brutes and thugs
But mainly he will watch his mug
He rarely likes to wander far
Except from path to door to bar
He only does patrols at night
That's after Inns are locked up tight
And then you'll find him wandering round
Whilst making funny gurgling sounds
It's rare you see him walking straight
He's oft bamboozled by a gate
If homeward bounds, he goes astray
Instead he rests in stacks of hay
Awaking not at sun's first shine
He sleeps until it's opening time
If goblins ever came to town
Invading, screaming, running round
What would our bounder rightly think?
He'd likely ask them for a drink!
For though he's not adept with arms
He knows what's best to keep from harm
I'm sure the bounder would be able
To drink the goblins under the table
So hail the bounder, red of face
For in his hands we are kept safe
As least if there's an Inn quite near
And if you say you'll buy him beer
