Luyện nghe bài hát I Sing Of A Whistle

I SING OF A
(Robert Burns)
I sing of a Whistle, a of worth,
I of' a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our good king,
And long with this Whistle all shall ring.
Old Loda*, still the arm of Fingal,
The god of the sends down from his hall-
'This your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
'And drink to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!'
Old poets sung, and old chronicles tell,
What ventured, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was still,
And blew on the their requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatched at the bottle, in war,
He his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.
Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained,
Which now in his house has for remained;
three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial again have renewed.
Three joyous good fellows with hearts clear of
so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skilled in old
And gallant Sir Robert, in old wines.
Craigdarroch began with a tongue as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to up the spoil;
Or else he muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try was the man.
'By the of the ancients!'Glenriddel replies,
I surrender so glorious a prize,
'I,ll the ghost of the great Rorie More*,
'And bumoer his horn him twenty times o'er.'
A bard was selected to the fray,
And tell ages the feats of the day;
A bard who all sadness and spleen,
And wished Pamassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over, the claret ply,
And new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and so set,
And the bands grew the the more they were wet.
Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran
Bright Phoebus witnessed so joyous a corps,
And vowed that to leave them he was forlorn,
Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece had well out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to the fight,
Turned o'er in one bumper a of red,
And swore 'twas the way that ancestor did.
Then worthy Glernriddel, so and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, wage;
A ruling elder to wallow in wine!
He left the business to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the
But who can Fate and Quart Bumpers contend?
Though Fate said, a hero perish in light;
So uprose bright Phoebus - and fell the kinght.
uprose our Bard, like a prophet in drink:-
'Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation sink!
if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
'Come bottle more- and have at the sublime !
'Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with
'Shall heroes and patriots ever
'So thine be the laurel, and be the bay
'The thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!'
tune: The (272)
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