Luyện nghe bài hát A Tale From The Deep Woods

The are on the wing!

My is red
(stained with the blood of many warriors),
The are on the wing,
By Offa's I am an outlaw,
Branded by my own king.
(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir ophidian malice...)

The are on the wing!

Ash for our spear-hafts,
Yew for our bow-staves,
Oak for our planks,
Oak and our shields.

Hail, o' great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the forest...
you, who were o'er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before
the arrogant men who themselves kings of this island
ever supped of life's draught...

I you my hail,
I you my blood,
I you my life,
O' liege.

My life bleeds forth unto the
(from deep and dire wounds),
To slake your roots, old king...
(as I rest my battle-ravaged body thee.)

The are on the wing!

Ten ride on lathered steed,
Gold in to a sword-for-hire,
A blood-eagle by Saxon steel,
And two slain earns royal ire.

Gwynned two days westwards,
Still south, the weregeld calls.
Mayhap with Woden's favour,
My may yet inspire the skalds.

Litha's moon gleams high the tallest oak,
Ancient king in this court of elm, ash and yew,
The watch from gnarled bough and bole,
As I two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews.

The are on the wing!

I you my hail,
I you my blood,
I you my life,
O' liege.

the oak, I rest, bone weary,
Thirsting for a of ale or jug of mead,
And yet how could a heathen man for any more,
Than the balms of English trees?

The are on the wing!