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 brought to the court of our good 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-
Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
'And drink to hell, Sir! or ne'er 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 Whistle their 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 Baltic e'er 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 contest again have renewed.
Three joyous 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 tongue 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,
I surrender so glorious a prize,
'I,ll conjure the ghost of the Rorie More*,
'And bumoer his horn with him twenty 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 wished Pamassus a vineyard 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 were wet.
Gay Pleasure ran riot as ran o'er;
Bright Phoebus witnessed so joyous a corps,
And vowed that to leave them he was forlorn,
Till Cynthia he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles had well wore out the night,
gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turned o'er in one bumper a of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their did.
worthy Glernriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, wage;
A high ruling elder to in wine!
He left the foul business to less divine.
The Sir Robert fought hard to the end;
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 uprose our Bard, like a in drink:-
'Craigdarroch, soar when creation shall sink!
'But if thou would flourish in rhyme,
'Come -one more- and have at the sublime !
'Thy line, that have struggled for freedom Bruce
'Shall and patriots ever produce:
'So thine be the laurel, and be the bay
'The thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!'
tune: The (272)
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