Bilbo, meanwhile, had remembered to stop bowing.  It really wasn't polite to make light of a mortal's frailty or senility, Lindir reminded himself, and the hobbit had aged with unusual speed since coming to Imladris.  Lindir wondered if it was this way among all mortals, for they seemed to go from vigor to dotage in the space of a heartbeat.  Elrond said it was this way for some, and that the hobbit was unusually old for one of his race and must be allowed some eccentricities.  In other words, indulge his passion for bad verse if it made him happy.

Actually, Bilbo's verse wasn't so bad when he sang of hobbit matters, and the Elves genuinely liked these songs of the Shire.  It was only when he tried to write in ann-thennath or otherwise imitate the Elves that it was trite.  Why is he so ashamed of his people's songs, as if they were not fit for our hearing?  Elrond likes them well enough and has said so. 

"You know you are never tired of reciting your own verses," Saelbeth continued.  True enough, thought Lindir.  The hobbit positively does not know when to stop.  I wonder if the others are as bad.  "But really we cannot answer your question at one hearing."

Ai, do not encourage him!  Saelbeth caught his eye, winked and flashed him a cheeky grin.  You wicked Elf!

"What?" sputtered Bilbo.  "You can't tell which parts were mine, and which were the Dúnadan's?"

Honestly.  That Elfstone bit is as obvious as a Yrch's stench.  "It is not easy for us to tell the difference between two mortals," said Lindir. Flammifer--is that even a word?  He looked around to see what Aragorn's reaction had been, but the Dúnadan was, like Elrond, conspicuously absent.   So were Glorfindel and Erestor, who were regulars in the Hall of Fire; the latter in particular had a lovely singing voice and the former a passion for anything about Gondolin or the Blessed Realm.