Far over the Misty Mountains cold, To dungeons deep and caverns old, The dwarves of yore made mighty spells, While hammers fell like ringing bells.
Goblets they carved there for themselves, And harps of gold, where no man delves They shaped and wrought, and light they caught, To hide in gems on hilt of sword.
The pines were roaring on the heights, The wind was moaning in the night, The fire was red, it flaming spread, The trees like torches blazed with light.
The bells were ringing in the dale, And men looked up with faces pale.
The dragon's ire, more fierce than fire, Laid low their towers and houses frail.
The mountain smoked beneath the moon.
The dwarves, they heard the tramp of doom.
They fled the hall to dying fall Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.
Far over the Misty Mountains grim, To dungeons deep and caverns dim, We must away, ere break of day, To win our harps and gold from him!
We must away!
We must away!
We ride before the break of day!