[Arry]

An old piece of history sung . . . The Bowmen of the Shire

Gil grinned widely and raised his mug to the Gammers at the back table. ‘A moment, my old dears,’ he said winking boldly at them. ‘Tis the drink that makes our elbows work all the better for the playing!’ They laughed aloud and shook their fingers at him saying, ‘Shame, shame on you, you silver tongued boy!’ He waved his hand then to Marigold, and held his mug high, mouthing a thank-you.

He turned his attention, then, to Aranel, saying she had a lovely voice, and thanking her for the sharing of her song. ‘A cup of ale, Miss’ he asked waving Buttercup over with the pitcher. ‘In case you might be wanting to share another later.’

The four huddled on the stage whispering together for a moment. A sly look passed among them as they glanced toward the table where Falco sat.

‘There’s a fair piper in our midst,’ said Gil turning back to the crowd in the room. ‘Now I’ve no pipe on me the like of his, but a wee, sweet tin whistle I do have here.’ He bent down and plucked a thin whistle from his concertina’s bag. ‘And if he’d be so kind as to join us for our next song or the one after.’

‘Or the ones after those!’ harmonized the three other Hobbits smiling toward Falco’s table.

‘Anyway, I’ll just leave it here,’ Gil went on, laying it carefully on the small table where their mugs were set. ‘In hopes of enticing the piper to join in.’

Gil picked up his concertina and played a melancholy few bars on it. ‘This next song,’ he said, looking off to where the Gammers sat, ‘is one my Gammer’s gammer many times back taught.’ The trio of elder Hobbits raised their hoary eyebrows at his words, nodding for him to go on. ‘Now ‘tis a true story, my Gammer told me. But one not often talked about. An old story of brave men who answered their King’s call.’

Tomlin played a few sweet strains on his fiddle before Gil went on. ‘We’re faithful to our promises, my Gammer told me. Pay our debts we do to those who have extended their helping hands to us.’ Ferrin joined in with a steady low beat on his drum, a heartbeat driving slow beneath the story. The crowd grew quiet, listening.

‘Before we Hobbits set on foot in these Shire lands, we lived about Bree.’ There were nods of the head about the room as that old thread of history was pulled up from the Shire history. ‘The great King in the North, Argeleb the somethingth, in his wisdom and generosity granted old Marcho and Blanco the right to cross the Brandywine, head west, and claim a land for us Hobbits.’

‘More like he was tired of our drinking and singing and sent us off to give the Shiriffs there a break from having to haul us in all the time,’ said Ferrin in a loud aside to the audience. There was good natured laughter at this, then the call for Gil to go on.

‘Now later down the years, the shadow had reared its ugly head up north of the King’s country. Yes – that same pack of bad ‘uns that our own Mister Frodo and our Mayor went to help put an end to. And no, I don’t quite recall the name of the King that sent the message to us . . .’ He looked toward the table of Gammers.

‘Twas Arvedoo,’ said one. ‘Aye, close enough. Arvedui, it was. The one that drowned, we heard,’ one of the others corrected her, pointing the stem of her pipe at Gil for emphasis.

‘Arvedui, then,’ said Gil nodding his head. ‘His kingdom was crumbling. Beset on all sides by those foul creatures of shadow. Fearsome old things, too.’

‘Nasty old Witch-king,’ called out one of the elder ladies. ‘Sold his own country and hisself out for some promise o’ power what was never going to work out.’ ‘Dumb as stumps those bad ‘uns when it comes right down to it,’ another of the Gammers said. ‘May we never see them again!’ they all said in unison, crossing their fingers as a ward against dark evil.

‘Anyway, the King, Arvedui, was at his wit’s end,' Gil continued. 'And he sent out a call for his loyal subjects to send aid. Now word came to our Chieftains here in the Shire of the King’s request. And they sent a troop of the finest bowmen in the Shire. Sorry to say, their names are long forgotten. But their deeds and brave spirit were not.’

All the instruments had gone quiet as Gil stepped forward and raised his voice. He sang the first verse without accompaniment, then joined in with the others to play for the remaining verses.

'Twas down by the glenside, I met an old woman
She was picking young nettles and she scarce saw me coming
I listened awhile to the song she was humming

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Shire men

‘Join in now,’ he called out to the crowd, ‘tis the same last words at the end of each verse.’

'Tis many long years since I saw the moon beaming
On strong manly forms and their eyes with hope gleaming
I see them again, sure, in all my daydreaming

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Shire men

They died round old Fornost, and most near a stranger
And wise men have told us that their cause was a failure
They fought for the North King and they never feared danger

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Shire men

I passed on my way, fate be praised that I met her
Be life long or short, sure I'll never forget her
We may have brave men, but we'll never have better

Glory O, Glory O, to the bold Shire men . . .

Yes, glory o, glory to those bold archer men . . .


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with thanks and apologies to the original song: The Bold Fenian Men