Here's a lament sung by a self-pitying bard in Gondor, just to give the day a merry start:

Sáre sanwi, a tule indonyanna,
Óre, á lire nairi asalaste!
Avánies. Quilde, ta sance manna,
Vaita i cúma ve musse quesse.

Savin súle. *Exo, ma nwara minya,
Ríca care assa mi naicenyo vaine?
Unqua rície. Eresse, sermo wilwa,
Himya sí, ve Hyarmenna oiolaire.

Hecat! En tuiar aldali, háya,
Wén téna han i nixe ya tápa i sír,
En cála i tanwa pa ramba técina,
En móta i Sintamo, i Maitar, i Hér.

Bitter thoughts, welcome to my mind,
Heart, sing laments easily heard.
She's gone. Hush, that hateful boon,
Enfolds the emptiness like soft feathers.

I believe in the soul. Or else, what gnaws inside me,
Trying to bore a hole in the sheath of my pain?
Vain effort. Solitude, that capricious friend,
Will stick around now, like eternal summer to southern lands.

Begone! Some trees are still budding, far away,
Greenness is still around beyond the frost that blocks the river,
Still glows the writing on the wall,
Still labours the Smith, the Artist, the Lord.