Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,

And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;

For many a year he had gnawed it near,

For meat was hard to come by.

Done by! Gum by!

In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,

And meat was hard to come by.

Up came Tom with his big boots on.

Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?

For it looks like the shin o' roy nuncle Tim,

As should be a-lyin' in graveyard.

Caveyard! Paveyard!

This many a year has Tim been gone,

And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard'.

'My lad', said Troll, 'this bone I stole.

But what be bones that lie in a hole?

Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,

Afore I found his shinbone.

Tinbone! Thinbone!

He can spare a share for a poor old troll;

For he don't need his shinbone'.

Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee

Without axin' leave should go makin' free

With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;

So hand the old bone over!

Rover! Trover!

Though dead he be, it belongs to he;

So hand the old bone over!'

'For a couple o' pins', says Troll, and grins,

'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.

A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!

I'll try my teeth on thee now.

Нее now! See now!

I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;

I've a mind to dine on thee now'.

But just as he thought his dinner was caught,

He found his hands had hold of naught.

Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind

And gave him the boot to larn him.

Warn him! Darn him!

A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,

Would be the way to larn him.

But harder than stone is the flesh and bone

Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.

As well set your boot to the mountain's root,

For the seat of a troll don't feel it.

Peel it! Heal it!

Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,

And he knew his toes could feel it.

Tom's leg is game, since home he came,

And his bootless foot is lasting lame;

But Troll don't care, and he's still there

With the bone he boned from its owner.

Doner! Boner!

Troll's old seat is still the same,

And the bone he boned from its owner!

The Lonely Troll he sat on a stone

and sang a mournful lay:

'O why, O why must I live on my own

in the hills of Faraway?

My folk are gone beyond recall

and take no thought of me;

alone I'm left, the last of all

from Weathertop to the Sea'.

'I steal no gold, I drink no beer,

I eat no kind of meat;

but People slam their doors in fear,

whenever they hear my feet.

O how I wish that they were neat,

and my hands were not so rough!

Yet my heart is soft, my smile is sweet,

and my cooking good enough.'

'Come, come!' he thought, 'this will not do!

I must go and find a friend;

a-walking soft I'll wander through

the Shire from end to end'.

Down he went, and he walked all night

with his feet in boots of fur;

to Delving he came in the morning light,

when folk were just astir.

He looked around, and who did he meet

but old Mrs. Bunce and all

with umbrella and basket walking the street;

and he smiled and stopped to call:

'Good morning, ma'am! Good day to you!

I hope I find you well?'

But she dropped umbrella and basket too,

and yelled a frightful yell.

Old Pott the Mayor was strolling near;

when he heard that awful sound,

he turned all purple and pink with fear,

and dived down underground.

The Lonely Troll was hurt and sad:

'Don't go!' he gently said,

but old Mrs. Bunce ran home like mad

and hid beneath her bed.

The Troll went on to the market-place

and peeped above the stalls;

the sheep went wild when they saw his face,

and the geese flew over the walls.

Old Farmer Hogg he spilled his ale,

Bill Butcher threw a knife,

and Grip his dog, he turned his tail

and ran to save his life.

The old Troll sadly sat and wept

outside the Lockholes gate,

and Perry-the-Winkle up he crept

and patted him on the pate.

'O why do you weep, you great big lump?

You're better outside than in!'

He gave the Troll a friendly thump,

and laughed to see him grin.

'O Perry-the-Winkle boy', he cried,

'come, you're the lad for me!

Now if you're willing to take a ride,

I'll carry you home to tea'.

He jumped on his back and held on tight,

and 'Off you go!' said he;

and the Winkle had a feast that night,

and sat on the old Troll's knee.

There were pikelets, there was buttered toast,

and jam, and cream, and cake,

and the Winkle strove to eat the most,

though his buttons all should break.

The kettle sang, the fire was hot,

the pot was large and brown,

and the Winkle tried to drink the lot,

in tea though he should drown.

When full and tight were coat and skin,

they rested without speech,

till the old Troll said: 'I'll now begin

the baker's art to teach,

the making of beautiful cramsome bread,

of bannocks light and brown;

and then you can sleep on a heather-bed

with pillows of owlets' down'.

'Young Winkle, where've you been?' they said.

'I've been to a fulsome tea,

and I feel so fat, for I have fed

on cramsome bread', said he.

'But where, my lad, in the Shire was that?

Or out in Bree?' said they.

But Winkle he up and answered flat:

'I aint a-going to say'.

'But I know where', said Peeping Jack,

'I watched him ride away:

he went upon the old Troll's back

to the hills of Faraway'.

Then all the People went with a will,

by pony, cart, or moke,

until they came to a house in a hill

and saw a chimney smoke.

They hammered upon the old Troll's door.

'A beautiful cramsome cake

O bake for us, please, or two, or more;

O bake!' they cried, 'O bake!'

'Go home, go home!' the old Troll said.

'I never invited you.

Only on Thursdays I bake my bread,

and only for a few'.

'Go home! Go home! There's some mistake.

My house is far too small;

and I've no pikelets, cream, or cake:

the Winkle has eaten all!

You Jack, and Hogg, old Bunce and Pott

I wish no more to see.

Be off! Be off now all the lot!

The Winkle's the boy for me!'

Now Perry-the-Winkle grew so fat

through eating of cramsome bread,

his weskit bust, and never a hat

would sit upon his head;

for Every Thursday he went to tea,

and sat on the kitchen floor,

and smaller the old Troll seemed to be,

as he grew more and more.

The Winkle a Baker great became,

as still is said in song;

from the Sea to Bree there went the fame

of his bread both short and long.

But it weren't so good as the cramsome bread;

no butter so rich and free,

as Every Thursday the old Troll spread

for Perry-the-Winkle's tea.