Luyện nghe bài hát A Tale From The Deep Woods

The are on the wing!

My is red
(stained with the blood of Mercian warriors),
The are on the wing,
By Offa's I am an outlaw,
wolfshead by my own king.
(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with 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 of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest...
you, who reigning o'er your time-veiled 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 bleeds forth unto the earth
(from deep and dire wounds),
To slake your roots, old king...
(as I rest my body against thee.)

The are on the wing!

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

lies two days westwards,
Still further south, the calls.
with All-Father Woden's favour,
My may yet inspire the skalds.

moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak,
Ancient king in this sylvan of elm, ash and yew,
The watch from gnarled bough and bole,
As I pull two Mercian shafts from my 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 balms of English

The are on the wing!