Luyện nghe bài hát A Tale From The Deep Woods

The are on the wing!

My is red
(stained with the of many Mercian warriors),
The are on the wing,
By decree I am an outlaw,
wolfshead by my own king.
(The orm-garth 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, of the deepest forest...
you, who were reigning o'er your time-veiled centuries before
the arrogant men who proclaim themselves of this island
ever supped of bitter-sweet draught...

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

My bleeds forth unto the earth
(from many deep and wounds),
To slake roots, great old king...
(as I rest my body against thee.)

The are on the wing!

Ten ride on lathered steed,
in hand 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.
Mayhap All-Father Woden's favour,
My may yet inspire the skalds.

Litha's moon gleams high o'er the oak,
Ancient king in this court of elm, ash and yew,
The wood-spirits from gnarled bough 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 could a heathen man for any more,
Than the healing balms of trees?

The are on the wing!