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 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 from his hall-
'This Whistle's your challenge, to get o'er,
'And drink to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!'
Old poets sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, what fell;
The son of Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the Whistle their 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;
Till noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again renewed.
Three joyous good fellows with hearts clear of
Craigdarroch so for wit, worth, and law;
And Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins;
And gallant Sir Robert, in old wines.
began with a tongue 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 the ghost of the great Rorie More*,
'And bumoer his horn him twenty times o'er.'
A bard was to witness the fray,
And tell future the feats of the day;
A who detested all sadness and spleen,
And that Pamassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over, the claret 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 bumpers ran
Phoebus ne'er witnessed so joyous a corps,
And vowed to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted 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 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 foul business to folks divine.
The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the
But who can with Fate and Bumpers contend?
Though Fate said, a hero perish in light;
So uprose bright - and down fell the kinght.
Next our Bard, like a prophet in drink:-
'Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation sink!
if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,
'Come -one bottle more- and at the sublime !
'Thy line, that have struggled for freedom Bruce
'Shall heroes and patriots produce:
'So thine be the laurel, and be the bay
'The thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!'
The Whistle (272)
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