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 decree 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, of the deepest forest...
you, who were reigning o'er your kingdom centuries before
the arrogant men who proclaim kings of this island
ever of life's bitter-sweet 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 your roots, great old king...
(as I rest my body against thee.)

The are on the wing!

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

Gwynned lies two westwards,
Still further south, the calls.
with 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 gnarled and bole,
As I pull two Mercian 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 a heathen man wish for any more,
Than the healing balms of English

The are on the wing!