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 height, 
The winds were moaning in the night.
The fire was red, it flaming spread; 
The trees like torches biased 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 their 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 fight before ere break of day!