Lyrics - I Sing Of A Whistle by Burns Robert

I
SING
OF
A
WHISTLE(
Robert
Burns)
I sing of a
Whistle, a
Whistle of worth,
I sing of' a
Whistle, the pride of the
North,
Was brought to the court of our good
Scottish king,
And long with this
Whistle all
Scotland shall ring.
Old
Loda*, still rueing the arm of
Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-'
This
Whistle's your challenge, to
Scotland get o'er,'
And drink them to hell,
Sir! or ne'er see me more!'
Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, what champions fell;
The son of great
Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the
Whistle their requiem shrill.
Till
Robert, the lord of the
Cairn and the
Scaur,
Unmatched at the bottle, unconquered in war,
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the
Baltic e'er drunker than he.
Thus
Robert, victorious, the trophy has gained,
Which now in his house has for ages remained;
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood,
The jovial contest again have renewed.
Three joyous good fellows with hearts clear of flaw;
Craigdarroch so famous for wit, worth, and law;
And trusty
Glenriddel, so skilled in old coins;
And gallant
Sir
Robert, deep-read in old wines.
Craigdarroch began with a tongue smooth as oil,
Desiring
Glenriddel to yield up the spoil;
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan,
And once more, in claret, try which was the man.'
By the gods of the ancients!'
Glenriddel replies,'
Before
I surrender so glorious a prize,'
I,ll conjure the ghost of the great
Rorie
More*,'
And bumoer his horn with him twenty times o'er.'
A bard was selected to witness the fray,
And tell future ages the feats of the day;
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen,
And wished that
Pamassus a vineyard had been.
The dinner being over, the claret they ply,
And every new cork is a new spring of joy;
In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set,
And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet.
Gay
Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er;
Bright
Phoebus ne'er witnessed so joyous a corps,
And vowed that to leave them he was quite forlorn,
Till
Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn.
Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night,
When gallant
Sir
Robert, to finish the fight,
Turned o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestor did.
Then worthy
Glernriddel, so cautious and sage,
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage;
A high ruling elder to wallow in wine!
He left the foul business to folks less divine.
The gallant
Sir
Robert fought hard to the end;
But who can with
Fate and
Quart
Bumpers contend?
Though
Fate said, a hero should perish in light;
So uprose bright
Phoebus - and down fell the kinght.
Next uprose our
Bard, like a prophet in drink:-'
Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink!'
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme,'
Come -one bottle more- and have at the sublime !'
Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with
Bruce'
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:'
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay'
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!'tune:
The
Whistle (272)filename[
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