The OTHER Lays of Beleriand by Aiwen

Disclaimer: These poems are based on The Silmarillion and The Lays of Beleriand, both by J.R.R. Tolkien. I am, however, responsible for Nargothrond's sewer problems, along with a few other bizarre things you will meet in later poems. I make no money off this whatever, so please don't bother suing me.

The Lay of the Nargothrond Sewers

Lord Thorontir the engineer,
Dauntless crept into the pipe,
With light of shining lantern clear,
He ignored the foul stench so ripe.

Ahead the slimed waters lay,
And threatened fair to overflow,
Nargothrond they would betray,
When they joined Narog below.

The city would then opened be,
To the great Lord Ulmo's wrath,
Ended would be their secrecy,
If near their doors orcs found a path.

For sheer embarrassment might fell,
The valiant elves of Narog's hall,
If Morgoth found them by their smell,
And 'twere that which led to Narog's fall.

So onward crept lord Thorontir,
Searching for the blocked place,
Down sewers carved in limestone sheer,
He dared the water's foul embrace.

Finally in the lantern's gleam,
He saw an oozing matted mass,
That blocked up all the noisome stream,
'Twas this had brought them to this pass.

Into the noisesome matted ooze,
He pushed packs Celebrimbor made,
That were designed to dissolve refuse,
But slow that escape might yet be made.

For as that mass began to fail,
Water would begin to trickle slow,
Then fast and strong as howling gale,
Nought would stop the mighty flow.

Now swiftly did Thorontir run,
Guided by the lantern's light,
In regions beyond reach of sun,
He heard the crash of water's might.

The mass's tyranny was gone!
Behind him came the mighty flood,
But up ahead a great light shone,
and hope did fire anew his blood.

He sped upon the ladder steep,
And up and out the rounded door,
In desperation he did leap,
Then fell in faint upon the floor.

That's why he is LORD Thorontir,
And sits upon the council high,
To remind lords of what is dear,
Yet oft forgot by you and I.
   
A note from the historian in Minas Tirith: these lays were found in a small book left behind by a certain Lindir of Imladris when he attended Arwen and Aragorn's wedding. Lindir is believed to be the author of most of the poems, which are quite valuable as we have few examples of Beleriandic humor in our collection. An attempt was made to return the poems to him, but it was discovered that he had already sailed for Valinor.

This particular poem had a note scrawled at the bottom: Dedicated to the people who keep cities functioning. Their jobs may not (usually) be a source of immortal legends, but everyone complains if something goes wrong.

All of you have heard me tell,

of the mighty Glorfindel,

Who dared the fearsome Balrog's ire,

To save his folk from Udun's fire.

What is much less often sung,

Is the means by which he was undone,

For if Glorfindel had cut his hair,

He would not be buried there.

Glorfindel had lovely hair,

As if Anar's light it did ensnare,

His shining locks he would not shear,

Whether battle then was far or near.

He won the battle 'gainst Balrog's might,

And the Balrog fell into the night,

But Glorfindel it did ensnare,

When falling it caught him by the hair.

This is why you must wary be,

Of such things as vanity,

For your life is far more fair,

Then even the most lovely hair.

Chapter End Notes

A small note in the margin of this poem includes instructions not to sing it around exiles from Gondolin, as they tend to throw unpleasant things at the singer.

Alay, alas, alack!

Oh woe, woe and thrice woe.

Woe is me for I am undone,

I must explain to Morgoth how I lost tol Sirion.

He never was inclined to listen to excuses,

He invariably follows them up with Mairin-rights abuses.

I do not want to tell him I was bested by a dog,

I would rather hide in Taur-nu-fuin as a fungus-covered log.

I do not want to find myself before his throne in shame,

at being misled by an illusion and a slightly mangled name.

I do not want to let him know that in three months I learned nought more,

of Finrod than that he was the most frustrating elf I've ever had to store.

But I cannot hide forever and logs are rather boring,

I will return in hope he will only make me listen to his snoring.

Chapter End Notes

A/N: with apologies to William Shakespeare as well as JRR Tolkien for mangling their ideas and verse, and additional apologies to Lindir for attributing these to him.

Gondolin is Gone

Great Gondolin stood shining,

Atop ancient gray granite,

But Gondolin is gone.

Green grass shone surrounding,

White walls long legendary,

But Gondolin is gone.

Festooned in fire,

Smothered by sea,

Gondolin is gone.

Ulmo only swims the streets,

In deep, dark, wet water.

For Gondolin is gone.

Thou art highly craven,

For a misbegotten Raven.

Your black and clawlike hands would put any bird to shame,

Yet you'll find man not so easy for your darkened self to tame.

Your cowardice is shown:

you sit quaking on your throne,

While you creatures fight and die,

Beneath a foul and smoking sky.

Do you hide your ugly face,

For fear we'll laugh at your disgrace?

Or that flocks of crows will jeer,

When they see that you too fear?

For shame! That one who once was bright,

should fall so far into the night.

Seeking all others to destroy,

because he lost the source of joy.

Take flight foul bird and fly away,

For all your many crimes you'll pay.

An end will come to war and pain,

for day shall come again.

I may not live to see it dawn,

but day will come again.

Lindir's note: This song was written during a festival one evening in the great Hall of Dor'lomin. There were probably multiple authors of varying levels of sobriety. Their names are not known for certain, but the last six lines are believed to be Hurin's.

The Laundry Orc's Lament

The water smells like lilac,

And I am far too clean,

But Gothmog's shirt is dirty,

So in the wash it goes!

With a

Bash bash,

Scrub scrub,

Splash splash,

Ow my aching hands and back!

I am an orc of Angband,

But my career has suffered many woes,

I once was drunk on sentry,

They said death wasn't bad enough:

With a

Laugh laugh,

Snigger snigger,

Kick kick,

And to the wash-pit I was banned.

The elf-slaves were told to do it,

But they shrank Morgoth's cloak,

Bleached the balrog's mittens,

And tie-dyed Sauron's shirts.

With a

Tee hee,

Whisper whisper,

Plot plot,

And they were invited to dine with Thuringwethil.

So now they make us do it,

Though we always do it wrong,

They make us do it over,

So we sing this mournful song...

Start again at the beginning and repeat until the washing is done. There is no tune, or rather, there are as many tunes as there are Orcs who have ever sung it. This version is as was sung to Lindir by Gwindor in the halls of Nargothrond. There is a note in the margin not to sing it unless you wish your audience to go away.

Bring the Dawn!

This night is dark.

The howls of wolves

Wreath the tower that once was ours,

In horror stark.

We long for dawn.

The wind is chill.

But for the wolves all lies still,

The world is thrawn.

There lies our King,

In darkness deep.

Yet still we sit and eat and sing,

Faith lies asleep.

Sleep we like stone?

Try not to hear

While evil in our name is done,

The time is near:

Nay, it is now!

To bring down

The tyrants we fools follow,

Our act brings dawn.

This song was rarely sung until after the fall of Nargothrond. Before then, the grief and guilt was yet too near. Under the rule of Celegorm and Curufin, it also earned anyone who sang it time in Nargothrond's makeshift and overcrowded dungeon.

The Harp

A harp is a wonderful thing,

It accompanies you when you sing,

So you don't sing alone,

Before the King's throne,

Oh, a harp is a marvellous thing!

Historian's notes: This limerick was found scribbled in the margins of the Lay of the Nargothrond Sewers. No author is credited with the work, but judging by the scribbled out words and corrections, Lindir may have invented it on the spot.

The Harp is one of several short poems appearing in the margins of Lindir's book. Most of them are not very serious, as is the case with the following snatch of verse:

Finduilas' hair

Is like a snare:

it catches batchelors.

There are a few more serious short poems, one of which has been reproduced below.

White Birds

Across the sea the white birds fly,

I stand yearning on the shore and sigh,

for we cannot follow unless we die,

and all our dreams have proved a lie.

I stand and watch the white birds fly.