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 Whistle all Scotland shall ring.
Old Loda*, rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends from his hall-
'This Whistle's your challenge, to get o'er,
drink them to hell, Sir! or ne'er see me more!'
Old have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, what fell;
The son of great 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 his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er than he.
Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained,
Which now in his house has for remained;
Till three chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest have renewed.
Three joyous good fellows with hearts clear of
Craigdarroch so for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty Glenriddel, so skilled in old
And Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring Glenriddel to up the spoil;
Or else he would the heads of the clan,
And more, in claret, try which was the man.
'By the of the ancients!'Glenriddel replies,
I surrender so glorious a prize,
'I,ll conjure the ghost of the great More*,
'And bumoer his horn with him times o'er.'
A bard was selected to the fray,
And tell ages the feats of the day;
A who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wished that Pamassus a had been.
The dinner being over, the they ply,
And new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and so set,
And the grew the tighter the more they were wet.
Gay Pleasure ran riot as ran o'er;
Phoebus ne'er witnessed so joyous a corps,
And vowed that to leave he was quite forlorn,
Till hinted he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece had well 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.
Then worthy Glernriddel, so and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would
A ruling elder to wallow in wine!
He the foul business to folks less divine.
The gallant Sir fought hard to the end;
But who can with Fate and Quart Bumpers
Though Fate said, a should perish in light;
So uprose Phoebus - and down fell the kinght.
Next our Bard, like a prophet in drink:-
'Craigdarroch, soar when creation shall sink!
'But if thou would immortal in rhyme,
-one bottle more- and have at the sublime !
'Thy line, have struggled for freedom with Bruce
heroes and patriots ever produce:
'So thine be the laurel, and be the bay
field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!'
tune: The (272)
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