Luyện nghe bài hát A Tale From The Deep Woods

The are on the wing!

My is red
(stained the blood of many Mercian warriors),
The are on the wing,
By decree I am an outlaw,
Branded by my own king.
(The awaits me, darkly astir with 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 reigning o'er your kingdom centuries before
the arrogant men who themselves kings of this island
supped of life's bitter-sweet draught...

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

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

The are on the wing!

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

Gwynned lies two westwards,
further south, the weregeld calls.
Mayhap All-Father Woden's favour,
My deeds may yet the skalds.

Litha's moon high o'er the tallest oak,
king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew,
The wood-spirits watch from bough and bole,
As I pull two Mercian shafts my bloodied thews.

The are on the wing!

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

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

The are on the wing!