The Hobbits are just rustic English people, made small in size because it reflects the generally small reach of their imagination - not the small reach of their courage or latent power.

Cold be hand and heart and bone, and cold be sleep under stone: never more to wake on stony bed, never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead. In the black wind the stars shall die, and still on gold here let them lie, till the dark lord lifts his hand over dead sea and withered land.

A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night.

Alive without breath, As cold as death; Never thirsty, ever drinking, All in mail never clinking.

And it is not always good to be healed in body. Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter.

I'd got hobbits on my hands hadn't I?

Where iss it, where iss it: my Precious, my Precious? It's ours, it is, and we wants it.