Luyện nghe bài hát I Sing Of A Whistle

I SING OF A
(Robert Burns)
I of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth,
I of' a Whistle, the pride of the North,
Was brought to the court of our Scottish king,
And long with this Whistle all Scotland ring.
Old Loda*, still the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down his hall-
'This your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
'And drink them to hell, Sir! or see me more!'
Old have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, champions fell;
The son of Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the their requiem shrill.
Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,
Unmatched at the bottle, in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as 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 contest again renewed.
joyous good fellows with hearts clear of flaw;
Craigdarroch so famous for wit, worth, and
And Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins;
And Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began with a smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the
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,
'Before I surrender so a prize,
'I,ll conjure the ghost of the Rorie More*,
'And his horn with him twenty times o'er.'
A was selected to witness the fray,
And tell ages the feats of the day;
A bard who all sadness and spleen,
And wished that Pamassus a had been.
The dinner being over, the claret ply,
And every new is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they wet.
Gay Pleasure ran as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright Phoebus ne'er so joyous a corps,
And vowed that to leave he was quite forlorn,
Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece had wore out the night,
When gallant Sir Robert, to the fight,
o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that ancestor did.
Then Glernriddel, so cautious and sage,
No the warfare, ungodly, would wage;
A high ruling to wallow in wine!
He left the business to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the
But who can with and Quart Bumpers contend?
Though Fate said, a should perish in light;
So uprose Phoebus - and down fell the kinght.
Next uprose our Bard, a prophet in drink:-
'Craigdarroch, soar when creation shall sink!
if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
'Come -one bottle more- and have at the !
'Thy line, that struggled for freedom with Bruce
'Shall heroes and patriots ever
'So thine be the laurel, and be the bay
'The field thou hast won, by yon god of day!'
The Whistle (272)
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