Chip the glasses, crack the plates!
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates
So carefully, carefully with the plates!

Blunt the knives and bend the forks!
Smash the bottles, burn the corks!
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates
So carefully, carefully with the plates!

Far o'er the Misty Mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale, enchanted gold

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells
While hammers fell likе ringing bells
In places deep, wherе dark things sleep
In hollow halls beneath the fells

Goblets they carved there for themselves
And harps of gold; where no man delves
There lay they long, and many a song
Was sung unheard by men or elves

For ancient king and elvish lord
There many a gleaming golden hoard
They shaped and wrought, and light they caught
To hide in gems on hilt of sword
On silver necklaces they strung
The flowering stars, on crowns they hung
The dragon-fire, in twisted wire
They meshed the light of moon and sun

The pines were roaring on the height
The winds were 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 they 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 their hall to dying fall
Beneath his feet, beneath the moon

We must away ere break of day
To win our harps of gold from him!