At evening often it happens yet,
When the rest of our night is free,
That a veteran old from the war is met,
And we chat about Ynel of Bree.
Though sullen the man may have been before,
More kindly his face now grows,
And his gray moustache doth a curl come o'er,
And smile on his visage grows.
He thinks how oft from the battle-plain,
or from long-day's travel incur
And wearied, came he a pint to drain,
in the Prancing Pony with her.
