Oh you can search far and wide,
you can drink the whole town dry,
but you'll never find a beer so brown, (x3)
as the one we drink in our home town.
You can keep your fancy ales, you can drink them by the flagon,
but the only brew for the brave and true, comes from The Green Dragon.
Hey ho to the bottle I go,
to heal my heart and drown my woe,
rain may fall the wind may blow but there still be...
Many miles to go.
Sweet is the sound of the pouring rain,
and the stream that falls from hill to plain,
better than rain or rippling brook,
as a mug of beer in side this Took.
Blunt the knives,
bend the forks,
smash the bottles and burn the corks,
chip the glasses and crack the plates...
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates.
Cut the cloth,
tread the fat,
Leave the bones on the bedroom mat,
pour the milk on the pantry floor...
Splash the wine on every door.
Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl,
pound them up with a thumping pole and
when they're finished if they are whole...
Send them down the hall to roll.
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!
There's an inn, there's an inn,
there's a merry ol' in,
beneath, the old grey hill,
and there they brew a beer so brown
That the man in the moon himself came down one night to drink his fill.
The Ostler had a tipsy cat, that plays the five sting fiddle,
and up and down he plays his bow,
now squeaking high, and purring low,
now sawing in the middle.
So the cat played the fiddle hey-diddle diddle,
a jig that would wake the dead,
he squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
while the landlord shook the man in the moon, "It's after three." he said.
now look at the fiddle when diddle done diddle, dark began to lore,
the cows and horses stood on their heads
the guests all bounded from their beds and danced upon on the floor,
round the moon, behind the hills the sun raised up their head,
she hardly believed their fiery eyes though it was day to her surprise,
they all went bad to bed.