Luyện nghe bài hát I Sing Of A Whistle

I OF A WHISTLE
(Robert Burns)
I of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I sing of' a Whistle, the of the North,
Was brought to the court of our Scottish king,
And long with Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda*, still the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his
Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
'And drink to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!'
Old poets have sung, and old tell,
What champions ventured, what fell;
The son of great Loda was still,
And blew on the Whistle requiem shrill.
Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatched at the bottle, in war,
He drank his god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker he.
Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained,
Which now in his has for ages remained;
three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The contest again have renewed.
Three joyous good fellows with clear of flaw;
Craigdarroch so for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so in old coins;
And Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the
Or he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try was the man.
'By the of the ancients!'Glenriddel replies,
'Before I surrender so a prize,
'I,ll conjure the ghost of the Rorie More*,
'And bumoer his horn with him twenty o'er.'
A bard was selected to the fray,
And tell future ages the of the day;
A bard who detested all and spleen,
And wished that a vineyard had been.
The being over, the claret they ply,
And every new cork is a new spring of
In the of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the they were wet.
Gay Pleasure ran riot as ran o'er;
Phoebus ne'er witnessed so joyous a corps,
And vowed that to 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.
worthy Glernriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, wage;
A high ruling elder to in wine!
He the foul business to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert hard to the end;
But who can Fate and Quart Bumpers contend?
Though Fate said, a hero should in light;
So bright Phoebus - and down fell the kinght.
Next uprose our Bard, like a in drink:-
'Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when shall sink!
'But if would flourish immortal in rhyme,
'Come -one bottle and have at the sublime !
'Thy line, that struggled for freedom with Bruce
'Shall heroes and ever produce:
'So be the laurel, and mine be the bay
'The field thou hast won, by yon god of day!'
tune: The (272)
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