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 Offa's 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 of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest...
you, who were reigning o'er time-veiled kingdom centuries before
the arrogant men who themselves kings of this island
ever supped of bitter-sweet draught...

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

My life bleeds forth unto the
(from many and dire wounds),
To slake roots, great old king...
(as I rest my battle-ravaged 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 earns royal ire.

Gwynned lies two westwards,
further south, the weregeld 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 watch from gnarled 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.

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 of English trees?

The are on the wing!