Fare well we call to hearth and hallThough wind may blow and rain may fallWe must away ere break of dayOver the wood and mountain tallTo Rivendell where Elves yet dwellIn glades beneath the misty fellThrough moor and waste we ride in hasteAnd wither then we cannot tellWith foes ahead behind us dreadBeneath the sky shall be our bedUntil at last our toil be spedOur journey done, our errand spedWe must away! We must away!We ride before the break of day!

Oh! That was poetry!" said Pippin. "Do you really mean to start before the break of day?

There was a merry passenger, a messenger, a mariner:he built a gilded gondola to wander in, and had in hera load of yellow oranges and porridge for his provender;he perfumed her with marjoram and cardamom and lavender.

Bilbo was sadly reflecting that adventures are not all pony-rides in May-sunshine...

But our back is to legends and we are coming home. I suppose this is the first taste of it.''There is a long road yet,' said Gandalf.'But it is the last road,' said Bilbo.

The stars are far brighterThan gems without measure,The moon is far whiterThan silver in treasure;The fire is more shiningOn hearth in the gloamingThan gold won by mining,So why go a-roaming?

Not all those who wander are lost.

All that is gold does not glitter,Not all those who wander are lost.

He was going to learn about sheep, and the high pasturages, and look at a wider sky, and walk ever further and further towards the Mountains, always uphill. Beyond that I cannot guess what became of him. Even little Niggle in his old home could glimpse the Mountains far away, and they got into the borders of his picture; but what they are really like, and what lies beyond them, only those can say who have climbed them.