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 this Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda*, still the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends from his hall-
Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
'And them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!'
Old have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, champions fell;
The son of great Loda was still,
And on the Whistle 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.
Thus Robert, victorious, the has gained,
Which now in his house has for ages
three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial again have renewed.
Three joyous good fellows with hearts 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,
Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
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 him twenty times o'er.'
A was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future the feats of the day;
A bard who detested all and spleen,
And wished that Pamassus a had been.
The dinner being over, the they ply,
And every new cork is a new of joy;
In the of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more were wet.
Gay ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright Phoebus ne'er so joyous a corps,
And vowed that to leave he was quite forlorn,
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see next morn.
Six a-piece had well wore out the night,
gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,
Turned in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their did.
Then Glernriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, wage;
A high ruling to wallow in wine!
He left the foul to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir Robert hard to the end;
But who can with and Quart Bumpers contend?
Though Fate said, a hero perish in light;
So uprose bright Phoebus - and down the kinght.
Next uprose our Bard, like a prophet in
'Craigdarroch, soar when creation shall sink!
'But if thou would immortal in rhyme,
'Come -one more- and have at the sublime !
line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce
'Shall and patriots ever produce:
'So be the laurel, and mine be the bay
'The field thou hast won, by yon god of day!'
The Whistle (272)
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