[Arry]

Introductions are made and a song is sung for the bard

‘Hearpwine, is it?’ Gil said withdrawing his hand from that of the man. ‘And from Rohan, you say.’ Now where was Aman when she was needed, the Hobbit wondered. Tomlin and Fallon plucked at the strings of their fiddles, putting them in tune as Falco sounded a note on his pipe for them. They had withdrawn a little from where Gil stood, though they kept an eye on the man who had announced himself as a bard from Rohan.

‘No, not ‘a’ bard,’ THE bard,’ whispered Tomlin as he leaned in toward Fallon. Ferrin gave his drum a ba-dump-bump-bump as if to punctuate the statement. ‘And he’s come to sing with his “little friends”,’ Fallon added. ‘Perhaps we should stand on a table.’ The two fiddlers played a few fast bars from ‘Hare in the Corn’ and hopped on and off a nearby bench.

Gil by this time had brought Hearpwine to where the others were ‘tuning up’. ‘And these are my mates – Tomlin there on that wreck of a fiddle from which he draws the sweetest notes. And Fallon with his little rosewood fiddle; I swear he has the fastest fingers – nearly sets the bridge on fire. Ferrin there is breaking in his new hand drum. He’s the heartbeat behind our wandering notes.’ Falco hung back a little, fingering the holes on the tin whistle as if the jig were still playing. Gil, however, was not going to overlook him, and introduced him as a newcomer to the band. ‘Though truth be told, he’s most likely been playing much longer than any of us. Lovely piper!’

‘We don’t really know any songs from Rohan. Just a few snatches of tunes the Innkeeper hums now and then. And I don’t know what songs you might know in our slim catalog of tunes. But please,’ he said, ‘sit down here near us and listen a bit. Join in if you wish.’ He motioned for Ruby to bring a pitcher of ale and one of the larger mugs for Hearpwine. A chair was pulled up for him and a table of Hobbits nearby made room for him at the end of their table, for him to set his drink.

Picking up his concertina, Gil stepped back to his companions and held a whispered conference. ‘We’ve got a guest from fair Aman’s home country with us tonight,’ Gil announced, turning back to those in the room. ‘His name is Hearpwine of Rohan. He’s one of those traveling poets, minstrels, bards. Come to collect a few poor tunes from the Green Dragon. We’ll dig deep and see what we can find of interest for him.’ A round of clapping and shouts of encouragement went round. ‘And then perhaps he’ll share a few with us.’

He picked up the mug on the stool near him and sipped a bit to wet his mouth. ‘We’ve come up with an old, old song that Fallon learned from his Da’s gaffer and him from his gaffer’s gaffer. Story is he had it from a raggedy man who came west from beyond the Tower Hills. There are some words in it we don’t quite know nor where it was the battle was fought. But it’s much the same as any battle . . . light and good fight on against shadow and evil. And oh yes, there’s a bard in the song . . .’

There was a short stanza recited with which Gil said the raggedy man had introduced the song:

“Great were their deeds, their passions, and their sports;
With clay and stone
They piled on strath and shore those mystic forts,
Not yet over thrown
On cairn-crowned hills they held their council courts
While youths alone,
With giant dogs, explored the stags’ resorts,
And brought them down . . .”

Then the companions struck up the tune and Gil sang with Fallon; their fair voices twining in harmony:

Long long ago in this ancient land
A battle took place where two hills now stand
And on the plain there lay the slain
For neither the battle was won.

So the bard did sing of these faerie hills
Where bloom the white flowers and daffodils
One big one small Si Bheag Si Mhor
And never the battle is won.

Beneath these hills great heroes lie
Of the Red Branch Knights and their ancient foe
In still of night the immortals fight
But never the battle is won.

And so the harper was told these faerie tales
Of these faerie hills of the ancient Gaels
One big one small Si Bheag Si Mhor
And never the battle is won.

Twas after the battle the prophet foretold
No rest would be found for these warriors bold
Till they unite and fight one common foe
And then would the battle be won.

The instruments dropped out and just the two voices wove together the last verse:

So then the harper wrote of these faerie hills
Where bloom the white flowers and daffodils
One big one small Si Bheag Si Mhor
And never the battle is won.

. . . and never the battle is won . . .