"Then the Riders of the King's House upon white horses rode round about the barrow and sang together a song of Théoden Thengel's son that Gléowine his minstrel made, and he made no other song after. The slow voices of the Riders stirred the hearts even of those who did not know the speech of that people ..." ~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King: 'Many Partings'

"Come now, Master Merry! We have sung for many days now of the great deeds of our kings and the history of our lands. Share with us a tune from your own lands, if you will!" one of the Riders called out, lifting his mug high, the ale sloshing over the rim.

Everyone was gathered in the Golden Hall of Meduseld to celebrate the funeral feast of King Théoden, Thengel's son. Being the smallest guests--not to mention the most honored along with Aragorn, now King of Gondor--the four hobbits were sitting on the first row of wooden benches before the dais of the great hall, their furry feet dangling (Merry and Pippin's were closest to the floor).

"Oh, I'm afraid I'm not much of the singer. My cousins Pippin and Frodo are better suited for that," Merry said. He didn't feel like singing just yet and the slow song Gléowine had made earlier in the day still lay heavy on his heart, as did the burial itself. Pippin had picked up on the glumness in his cousin's voice and so he set out singing some of the Shire's traditional songs in his sweet lilting voice, to appease the Rider's request and hopefully his cousin's mournful heart as well.

Merry had been very grieved earlier in the day when the King was buried at long last in the resting place of the Lords of the Mark. With reverence, Merry had born the arms of the King and laid them to rest with his entombed body in the house of stone as a final gesture to Théoden's noble heroics in battle. The tomb had then been covered with great turves of green grass until a great mound was formed over the land and its top was covered with the simple, yet elegant white simbelmynë flower that only grew on the seven other burial mounds of former kings of Rohan.

A nudge broke Merry of his sad thoughts. "Here you are, my friends, the finest ale Rohan has to offer." King Éomer passed out four mugs to the hobbits. More of the finest ale was passed around the hall in honor of Théoden King and also to toast the announcement of Faramir seeking Lady Éowyn's hand in marriage.

Apparently Pippin had finished his bout of singing and was now concentrating on downing his ale. "I think I'm going to require another pint in order to judge this ale as being the finest in all the lands." He winked conspiringly at Merry.

Merry perked up and took a swig of his own pint, savoring the rich, hearty wood flavor of the ale. It was certainly good, but it was no ale from the Shire, that much was certain.

The men of the Rohirrim were now trading off drinking songs, although they refrained from their more bawdy drinking games on this night. "Have you any songs about drink in your lands, Master hobbits?" called out another of the Riders.

A collective groan rose from Gandalf, Frodo, Sam, and Aragorn. Pippin, however, wasted no time in hopping up onto an empty table in the middle of the melee of Big Folk, dragging Merry with him. "Come, Cousin! We cannot let an opportunity pass by to sing about the Shire's finest."

Merry shook his head. He still didn't want to sing ... but the chants of the Big Folk and Pippin's pleading green eyes were enough to finally sway him. With mug in hand, he took his place opposite of Pippin. The younger hobbit tapped out a starting time with one large, furry foot and on the count of three, they began to sing and dance about the table.

Merry laughed as Pippin nearly kicked a poor fellow in the face and he started to enjoy himself. The two hobbits swung around each other, linking arms, stamping their bare feet, waving their mugs of brew, and slapping their legs as they sang with gusto. Merry couldn't help but give a sheepish grin when he did kick a man in the face accidentally. Pippin reached over and pulled a very reluctant Frodo up onto the table with them. Aragorn was smiling and Gandalf was laughing and clapping at the hobbits' merriment; Sam just shook his curly head and finished off his own ale--he knew better than to get involved in the cousins' drunken revelry.

Here the three hobbits stopped their dancing and paused for dramatics. The men of the Rohirrim waited in anticipation, some leaning over the table eagerly.

Comes from The Green Dragon!"†

The three sang out loudly before clanking their tankards in a toast and drinking from them as fast as they could. Merry leaned back as was his wont, putting his all into it and draining his pint in record time, beating Pippin to the finish. Frodo, who still often felt ill after his ordeal (and being a hobbit of a more proper gentlehobbit upbringing) sipped leisurely at his ale. He found himself chuckling at his favorite cousins' antics.

"Thank you! I win!" Merry grinned at Pippin, relieved to be feeling like his old self again. King Théoden would not have wanted him to grieve indefinitely.

"Thank you!" Pippin crowed in return to the gathering of Big Folk.

Frodo was smart to hop off the table before his two wayward cousins could coerce him into participating in another drinking song. As it was, he felt he reached his limit for the night and was growing very tired. He and Sam soon left the Golden Hall for their beds, taking their leave of King Éomer, Lady Éowyn, Aragorn, and all the others. Long into the night did the feasting last; voices were raised in song, as mugs were raised brimming with ale.

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† Lyrics by Phillipa Boyens