I've thrown together some more poems. The first is a scrap of rhyme dealing with the cats of Queen Berúthiel. The second is an admittedly racist Dunedain drinking-song. The third deals with Radagast, the fourth with Lórellin (a lake) in Valinor, and the fifth with a basic history of Narsil. I'm not altogether sure about the last one.

#title:Berúthiel's Cats
#author:Andreth
#types:shire,gondor,eriador,rohan,dale
There was a queen Berúthiel,
Who kept ten vile cats,
They hissed at guards,
And howled at bards,
And stalked aristocrats,

The Queen set on her cats a spell;
Their senses she possessed,
Nine black as night,
And one was white,
That spied on all the rest.

#title:Brave Bandobras
#author:Emeldir
#types:eriador,
One weary wintry year, so many
other years ago,
When ice grew on the Bruinen
Beneath the sallow snow,

A goblin-band rode from old Gram,
To find some fat Hobbits,
But have no fear for Shire-beer,
The Halflings had their wits!

Tall Bandobras was bold as brass,
A lad of four foot five,
He charged their ranks on Norbourn's banks,
And left no orc alive!

Golfimbul grim looked once at him,
And laughed in foul delight,
Full in the face he felt his mace,
And then his head took flight!

A hundred yards it flew, and hard
It hit the gory ground,
Goblins, beware–his skull's still there,
And Hobbit-wrath's renowned!

#title:Radagast the Brown
#author:Duilin the Elder
#types:lindon,eriador,rivendell,rohan,gondor,lothlorien,dale
Upon the edge of Greenwood great,
There is a path before a gate,
Beyond the gate is Rhosgobel,
Where Radagast the Wizard dwells,

Aiwendil he was known of old,
A friend of creatures uncontrolled,
He wandered on the jaded grass,
And spoke to mighty Mearas,
He climbed the crumbling mountain-ways,
And felt the fabled Eagle-gaze,
When south he went, a forest stirred,
The rumbling of the Ents he heard,
Before he settled in the dell,
And raised the house of Rhosgobel.

#title:Lórellin
#author:Maglor
#types:rivendell,lothlorien,lindon
In farthest west, in Valinor,
The Noldor knew an inner shore,
Within a green and silver glen,
In Irmo's realm of Lórien,
And in that lake on isle blessed,
Grey Estë sleeps a tranquil rest,
There slumber washes woe away,
Like sun on snow, like night on day,
Like waves upon the sundered coast
Of Valinor the Westernmost.

#title:Narsil
#author:Bilbo Baggins
#types:rivendell
Narsil was a Dwarven-blade
Of Telchar, fabled artisan,
The sword of simple steel he made,
And hottest flame he charred it in,
The Fire-light he called it then,
And etched the name in elven-runes,
Before it felt the grasp of Men,
And glinted in the noon,

The shining sea it passed across,
To Númenor, the starward-land,
It dwelt in fair Amenelos,
Below the sun, above the strand,
Until Elendil bore it back,
Across the ocean in her wrath,
The stars were red, the waves were black,
And dark the lashing froth,

To Arnor, and to Barad-Dûr,
Elendil bore the Fire-light,
Grim Sauron it could not endure,
And with Elendil, broke, that night,
Isildur bore the pieces, ere
He died beside the Anduin,
And Ohtar laid the pieces here,
In memory of him.