Luyện nghe bài hát I Sing Of A Whistle

I OF A WHISTLE
(Robert Burns)
I sing of a Whistle, a of worth,
I sing of' a Whistle, the of the North,
Was to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda*, still the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his
'This Whistle's challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!'
Old poets have sung, and old tell,
What champions ventured, champions fell;
The son of Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle their shrill.
Till Robert, the lord of the and the Scaur,
Unmatched at the bottle, in war,
He drank his poor as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic drunker than he.
Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained,
Which now in his house has for ages
Till noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial again have renewed.
joyous good fellows with hearts clear of flaw;
Craigdarroch so famous for wit, worth, and
And trusty Glenriddel, so in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, in old wines.
Craigdarroch with a tongue smooth 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 conjure the ghost of the Rorie More*,
'And bumoer his horn him twenty times o'er.'
A bard was to witness the fray,
And future ages the feats of the day;
A who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wished Pamassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner over, the claret they ply,
And new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and so set,
And the grew the tighter the more they were wet.
Gay ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright ne'er witnessed so joyous a corps,
And that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece had well out the night,
gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turned in one bumper a bottle of red,
And 'twas the way that their 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 to the end;
But who can with and Quart Bumpers contend?
Though Fate said, a should perish in light;
So uprose bright Phoebus - and fell the kinght.
Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in
'Craigdarroch, soar when creation shall sink!
'But if would flourish immortal in rhyme,
'Come -one bottle and have at the sublime !
'Thy line, that have for freedom with Bruce
'Shall and patriots ever produce:
'So thine be the laurel, and be the bay
'The field hast won, by yon bright god of day!'
The Whistle (272)
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