Far O're the Misty Mountains old,
To dungeons deep and caverns cold,
We must away, ere break of day,
To seek the pale enchanted gold.
The Dwarves of Yore made mighty spells,
While hammers fell like ringing bells,
In places deep, where dark things sleep,,
In hollow halls beneath the fells.
Goblets they carved there for themselves,
And harps of gold where no
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