High on the mountains highest ridge
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts life a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale
Not five yards from the mountain path
Silvertine you on the left espy
And to the left, three yards beyond
You see a little muddy pound
I looked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag, and off I ran
Head-foremost, through the driving rain
The shelter of the crag to gain
And, as I am a man
Instead a jutting crag, I found
Durins tower up from the ground
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