Suddenly a song began: a cold murmur, rising and falling. The voice seemed far away and immeasurably dreary, sometimes high in the air and thin, sometimes like a low moan from the ground. Out of the formless stream of sad but horrible sounds, strings of words would now and again shape themselves: grim, hard, cold words, heartless and miserable. The night was railing against the morning of which it was bereaved, and the cold was cursing the warmth for which it hungered. Frodo was chilled to the marrow. After a while the song became clearer, and with dread in his heart he perceived that it had changed into an incantation:
A dhesempis kan a dhallathas: hanas yeyn, ow sevel ha koedha. An lev a hevelis bos pell dhe-ves ha disliw yn anvusuradow, ughel y’n ayr ha tanow treweythyow, haval orth kynvann kosel a-dhiworth an dor treweythyow. Yn-mes diworth an fros heb furv a sonyow trist mes euthek a dheuth kerdyn a eryow owth omfurvya termyn a dermyn, geryow fell, kales, yeyn, heb kolonn ha galarek. Yth esa an nos ow nagha erbynn an myttin mayth o omdhivas anodho, hag yth esa an yeynder ow mollethi orth an toemmder mayth esa nown dhodho ragdho. Frodo a veu yeynhes bys dh’y eskern. Wosa pols an gan a dheuth ha bos klerra, ha gans euth yn y golon ev a gonvedhas hi dhe janjya yn gorhan:langbot langbot