Wilds stretch out west of Bree,
Lands filled with evil's glee,
Fields of dry grass, the occasional tree,
In these lands, there is no time for tea.
Hills climb upwards to the sky,
the summit, so high up where eagles fly,
letting out their shrill and loud cry!
The long plains ever so dry,
eggs on rocks could even fry!
Lynx-eyed men crawl about and spy,
wargs and wolves lurk about and pry!
Over the hills, one point stands on top!
The large hills, especially Weathertop!
The slope cannot be climbed without a stop,
at the crest be careful not to drop!
O! The Lone-Lands!
Weathertop still stands!
Safe from greedy hands!
O! The Lonely Lands!
