Luyện nghe bài hát I Sing Of A Whistle

I OF A WHISTLE
(Robert Burns)
I of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I of' a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the of our good Scottish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland ring.
Old Loda*, rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down his hall-
'This Whistle's challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!'
Old poets sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, champions fell;
The son of great was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle requiem shrill.
Till Robert, the lord of the and the Scaur,
at the bottle, unconquered in war,
He his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the e'er drunker than he.
Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained,
Which now in his has for ages remained;
three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial again have renewed.
Three good fellows with hearts clear of flaw;
so famous 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,
Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try was the man.
'By the of the ancients!'Glenriddel replies,
'Before I so glorious a prize,
'I,ll conjure the ghost of the Rorie More*,
'And bumoer his with him twenty times o'er.'
A was selected to witness the fray,
And tell ages the feats of the day;
A who detested all sadness and spleen,
And that Pamassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner 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 as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright Phoebus ne'er so joyous a corps,
And that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted see them next morn.
Six a-piece had well wore out the night,
When Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore the way that their ancestor did.
Then worthy Glernriddel, so and sage,
No the warfare, ungodly, would wage;
A high ruling to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks divine.
The gallant Sir Robert hard to the end;
But who can with Fate and Bumpers contend?
Though Fate said, a hero should perish in
So uprose bright - and down fell the kinght.
Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in
'Craigdarroch, soar when creation shall sink!
'But if thou would immortal in rhyme,
'Come bottle more- and have at the sublime !
'Thy line, that have struggled for with Bruce
'Shall heroes and patriots ever
'So thine be the laurel, and be the bay
'The field thou won, by yon bright god of day!'
tune: The (272)
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