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Dec. 27, 2012 - Radio Free Nortwest - H.A. Covington
02:10:44
20121227_rfn
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Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so.
Hush your woogle, hush and listen, and his cheeks were all aglow.
I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon, for the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon.
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon.
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon Oh, then tell me, Sean O'Farrell, where the gathering is to be In the old spot by the river, right the north to you and me One more roar for
signal, token, whistle, up and arch and chew For your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through the night Many a manly chest was throbbing for the blessed warning light The forest passed along the
valleys like the man she's lonely crew And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon And a thousand days were fleshing out Rising all the way It's December the 27th, 2012.
I'm Harold Covington, and this is Radio Free Northwest.
Two years ago, I kind of started a tradition here on Radio Free Northwest, in that the last podcast of every year is always an all-music program, wherein I play some of the musical cuts that have gotten the best reception over the last year, as well as some new ones, with little running commentaries by myself about the songs and the artists, and why Aryan music as a whole is such a vital part of our heritage.
And why it's so important in bringing our own people back to an understanding of that heritage.
Sometimes I get criticism from Radio Free Northwest listeners who are scared that I'm going to get sued, and granted, I do tend to avoid playing cuts from really major stars whose contracts are held by Jewish record companies who have battalions of litigation attorneys at their command.
But sometimes I also get criticism from people who seem to feel that I shouldn't be playing any music at all.
As one guy put it, I'm supposed to be a racist leader and not a disc jockey.
So, let me get briefly into why I play music at all on this show.
First off, to be honest, it's largely to provide a break from my hoarse, droning voice every 15 or 20 minutes or so.
There's nothing on earth more excruciatingly boring, to me anyway, than sitting there listening to some guy rabbiting on and on about things most of which you already know or agree with anyway.
Like everyone else in the movement, I tend to do a lot of preaching to the choir.
Now, it reminds me of the meetings of the old John Burke Society, where after the tea and cookies, the chapter leader would set up a boombox on a table, and all the old men and the blue-haired ladies would listen like mesmerized zombies to Robert Welch on a cassette tape, bloviating on and on and on in this droning voice about communism and insiders and mattoids and bizarre world conspiracies, including the Queen of England, or maybe that was Lyndon LaRouche.
Anyway, you get the idea.
Now, I don't want these podcasts to turn into that.
You guys need a break from the sound of my voice, and we don't have ads from our sponsors like Snapple or whatever Rush Limbaugh's peddling this week, and so I use music.
But there is a lot more important reason that I play music on here, especially the music that I choose to play.
Now, this is not just Harold spinning his CDs like a DJ.
Every now and then, I'll play something just because I like it, but there is usually a reason why I choose to play a certain specific cut.
As trite and cliché as all this sounds, a people's music is the soul of that people revealed for all to hear.
That's why nigger music consists largely of booming drums, or in these electronic days booming bass, and a string of howled or shouted obscenities and sexual terms from the Supremes to Isaac Hayes to modern-day gangster rap.
Nigger music sounds the way it does because that's what's going on in the Negro soul.
Deep down inside, they're all jumping and jiving back in the jungle while some coon beats on a hollow log.
They haven't progressed beyond that level, musically or any other way.
The music of the white man in Europe and in this country is infinitely deep and varied, and it is the heart and the history and the soul of every white nation translated into sine waves that tell a story without words.
I'm not going to go on and on here because I think every one of you listening to this understands what I'm saying.
Our people's entire history is written down not only in words, but in music, or at least since approximately the 12th century it's been written down in music.
I think, if memory serves, that's the oldest written musical tablature that can be identified and understood by today's paleographers and historians.
The Bardic tradition of ancient Celts and Germans seems to have been completely oral as far as the actual music goes.
Although, eventually, the words to things like Beowulf and the Battle of Malden were written down around the turn of the first millennium.
It's believed by many historians that the ancient Greeks and Romans must have had some way of writing music down.
It's just that no one has found any examples of it yet, and if we did, we probably wouldn't know what we were looking at.
Now, that's not surprising, since actual documents from classical times are very rare due to the deterioration of paper and parchment over the centuries, the ink fading away, and so forth and so on.
Anyway, who knows?
Someday, maybe there'll be a break on that front, and we may actually be able to listen to the songs and the music that Pericles and Julius Caesar played at their orgies.
But for now, the earliest surviving authenticated historic Aryan music comes from the early Middle Ages, the 1100s.
And it's mostly religious and church music, a lot of it in Latin.
I've played a number of those songs on Radio Free Northwest over the past few years, and I've gotten some favorable responses from a lot of people who thought that music, like American history, began in the days of electronic devices.
And anything before sound and film recording didn't exist in their frames of reference until I started playing some of this stuff on here.
I've gotten a lot of feedback from people who have thanked me for waking them up to the fact that the white man does, in fact, have a musical tradition at all.
You'd be amazed how many people's musical world begins with 1960s golden oldies from their childhood and ends with Super Tramp, even people who were starting to experience racial awakening.
Now, last year, I began my all-music program with a kind of march-of-time history of Aryan music, starting with the oldest and on down to Robert Mitchum singing Thunder Road in 1958.
That went over pretty well, and I want to try kind of the same thing again this year to begin with, but this time using music and history not so much for dates and events.
As to give an overall picture of our people's racial personality.
Now, naturally, a lot of these songs are going to be about battles and murders and blood and guts, because that's what people have always tended to sing about and write about and preserve in common memory.
After all, they didn't have supermarket tabloids or YouTube in the Middle Ages.
All they had was wandering minstrels and troubadours who had to literally sing for their supper.
And like all entertainers, those guys very quickly learned that the way to get a good fat goose in the tavern or a few silver coins from the local baron was to give the audience what they wanted.
And human nature being what it is, they wanted blood and guts.
But I'm also going to include a few other kinds of songs about just more ordinary kinds of white people and events, although once you really get to know the history of the world, nothing our people really do is ordinary.
Like I said in one of my books, if all the world's a stage, white people have all the speaking parts.
The other races are just along as extras for the crowd scenes.
I really had to spend a long time thinking about what I was going to include here.
The repertoire of white music is just so huge and vast I can't even really scratch the surface.
These are just a few songs I picked out to kind of give you that feel of it's a white thing.
On October 25, 1415, an army of about 9,000 Englishmen, commanded by their king, Henry V, fought a battle with a much larger army, between 30,000 and 50,000 French, at a place called Agincourt.
It's almost impossible to figure out an accurate estimate of how many men actually fought in a medieval battle, but everybody agrees that the Brits were wildly outnumbered, and everybody figured the armored French knights were going to crush them like a bug.
But because most of the English army consisted of skilled archers armed with heavy longbows, and because the dumbass French insisted on charging straight across a muddy field that turned into an impassable quagmire where all those heavy armored horses and men sank into the mire, The English won an upset victory over an army which realistically outnumbered them at least four to one.
It was not only a brilliant military feat, but it was probably the source of this immense superiority complex that the British seem to hang on to even today when their national heroes aren't Henry V or Francis Drake anymore but Benny Hill and Boyd George.
Anyway, I'm going to begin by playing for you one of the most famous passages ever written by William Shakespeare.
The St. Crispin's Day speech from the play Henry V. I'll follow it up with the Agincourt Carol, which was top of the pops back in 1415.
Now, my fair cousin, if we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss.
And if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor.
God's will, I pray thee, wish not one man more.
Brother...
Proclaim it, Westwall, and through my host, that he which hath no stomach to this fight, let him depart.
His passport shall be made, and crowns for convoy put into his purse.
We would not die in that man's company that fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the Feast of Crispian.
That outlives this day and comes safe home will stand at tiptoe when this day is named and arouse him at the name of Crispin.
He that shall see this day and live old age will yearly, on the vigil, feast his neighbours and say, Tomorrow is Saint Crispin's.
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars and say, These wounds I had on Crispin's day.
Old men forget.
Yet all shall be forgot, but he'll remember with advantages what feats he did that day.
Then shall our names, familiar in their mouths as household words, Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester, be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son.
And Crispin Crispian shall ne 'er go by.
From this day to the ending of the world!
But we in it shall be remembered.
We few.
We happy few.
We band of brothers.
For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.
Be he ne 'er so vile, this day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England, now are dead, shall think themselves a curse they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap, whilst any speaks that thought with us upon St. Crescent's Day!
Thank you.
My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed.
The French are bravely in their battle set and will, with all expedience, march upon us.
All things are ready if our minds bestow.
Purish the man whose mind is backward now.
That does not wish more help from England, cuz.
God's will, my liege.
Would you and I alone, without more help, can fight this royal battle?
You know your places.
God be with you all!
Yeah!
God be with you!
Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry.
If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, before thy most assured overthrow.
Who hath sent thee now?
The Constable of France.
I pray thee bear my former answer back.
Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones.
God!
God!
Why should they mock poor fellows thus?
Let me speak proudly.
Tell the constable!
We are but warriors for the working day.
Our gainness and our guilt are all besmirched with rainy marching in the painful field, but by the mass our hearts are in the trim.
Herald, save thou thy labor.
Come thou no more for ransom, gentle Herald.
They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints!
Which, if they have, as I shall leave them, shall yield them little.
Tell the constable.
I shall, King Harry.
And so fare thee well.
Thou never shalt hear Harold anymore.
Thou never shalt hear you.
Thou never shalt hear you.
Where for England make all and cry.
Deo gratias, Deo gratias, Anglia, rede pro victoria.
Now gracious God, he saved our King, his people and his well-women.
Grant him good life and good ending, that we on earth may safely sing.
Deo gratias, Deo gratias, Anglia, rede pro victoria.
Anglia, rede pro victoria.
Thank you.
A while back, I spoke on this program about the Jacobites, the followers of the exiled House of Stuart during the 17th and 18th century, and I tried to explain how this seemingly obscure episode in British history was actually a lot more significant than most people believe.
Yes, I know, I'm sure it bored you to tears, but some of you did like the music.
This is another Jacobite song.
On the freezing morning of February 13, 1692, a company of...
Well, not exactly British soldiers, but men from the Highland clan Campbell who were always sucking up to the English and doing their dirty work in Scotland and who were kind of hired by the British.
Anyway, these guys violated the laws of Highland hospitality and they murdered 38 men, women, and children from the MacDonald clan in their beds at a place called Glencoe on the orders of the new king, William of Orange.
The MacDonalds and the Campbells haven't had much use for one another since.
This is the Corrie brothers.
Thank you.
that sweeps Glencoe and covers the grave o'er doubt.
And cruel was the foe that raped Glencoe and mothered the house of Macdonald.
They came in the night when the men were asleep, this band o'ergyles through snow soft and deep Oh, cruel is the snow that sweeps Glencoe and covers the grave of Donnell.
And cruel was the foe that raped Glencoe and mothered the house of Macdonald.
Some died in their beds at the hand of the foe.
Some fled in the night, were lost in the snow.
Some lived to accuse him while struck the first blow.
But gone was the house of Macdonald.
Oh, cruel is the snow that sweeps Glencoe and covers the grave of dawn.
And cruel is the snow that sweeps Glencoe and covers the grave O'Donnell.
And cruel was the foe that raped Glencore And mother of the house of Macdonald Thank you.
I think even the most low-information voters among you, as Rush Limbaugh calls them, will have at least some vague knowledge of the American West and the whole cowboy thing.
These first two songs are by the old country singer from my day, Marty Robbins.
This was back in the time when country music lyrics actually told stories, at least sometimes.
The first song that Marty sings for us tells of a day when Americans actually enforce their immigration laws.
In the southern part of Texas, in the town of San Antonio, is a fortress all in ruins that the weeds have overgrown.
You may look in vain for crosses and you'll never see a one, but sometimes between the setting and the rising of the sun, you can hear a ghostly pupil as the men go marching by.
You can hear them as the answer to their own call in the sky.
Music Captain Dickinson, Jim Bowie, present and accounted for.
Back in 1836, Houston said to Travis, get some volunteers and go, reportify the Alamo.
Well, the men came from Texas and from old Tennessee, and they joined up with Travis just to fight for the right to be free.
Indian scouts with squirrel guns, men with muzzleloaders, stood together, heel and toe, to defend the Alamo.
You may never see your loved ones, Travis told them that day.
Those who want to can leave now, those who fight to the death, let them stay.
In the sand he drew a line with his army saber.
Out of a hundred and eighty-five, not a soldier crossed the line.
With his banners a-dancing in the dawn's golden light, Santa Anna came prancing on a horse that was black in the night.
Send an officer to tell Travis to surrender.
Travis answered with a shell and a rousing rebel yell.
Santa Anna turned scarlet.
Played to play low, he roared.
I will show them no order.
Everyone will be put to the sword.
One hundred and eighty-five, holding back five thousand.
Five days, six days, eight days, ten.
Travis held and held again.
Then he sent for replacements for his wounded and lame.
But the troops that were coming never came, never came, never came.
Twice he charged and blue recalled on the fatal third time.
Santa Anna breached the wall and he killed them one and all.
Now the bugles are silent and there's rust on each sword.
In this small band of soldiers Lie asleep in the arms of the Lord piano plays softly
In the southern part of Texas near the town of San Antonio Like a statue on his pinto rides a cowboy all alone And he sees the cattle grazing where a century before Santa and his guns were blazing and the cannons used to roar And his eyes turn sort of misty and his heart begins to glow And he takes his head off slowly to the men of our Lord This
This is Ian and Sylvia.
Come all ye Texas Rangers, wherever you may be.
I'll tell you of some troubles that happened unto me.
My name is nothing extra so that I will...
I will not tell And here's to all you rangers I'm sure I wish you well Was at the age of seventeen I joined the jolly band We marched from San Antonio down to the Rio Grande Our captain he informed us Before
we reach the station, boys, you'll surely have to fight.
And when the bugle sounded, our captain gave command.
To arms, to arms, he shouted, and by your horses stand.
I saw the smoke ascending, it seemed to reach the sky.
And then...
The thought it struck me, my time had come to die.
I saw the Indians coming, I heard them give a yell.
My feelings at that moment, no human tongue can tell.
I saw their glittering lenses, their arrows around me flew.
And all my strength at length, I never saw before And when the sun had risen The
sun was shining sadly across that bloody plain.
Sixteen a brave Rangers as ever Rode the west Were buried By their comrades With arrows in their Breasts And now My song has ended, I guess I've sung enough.
The life of any ranger you see is very tough.
And if you have a mother that don't want you to roam, I advise you by experience you'd better stay at home.
*Humming*
Ah, what the hell.
Here's another Mexican-killing cowboy song just for the hell of it.
This is Tom Russell.
Two men rode in from the south one rainy autumn night, the sky above and the mud below.
They walked into the Deacon's Bar.
They was Mexican by sight, the sky above.
you And the mud below.
They threw a horsehair bridle down.
We trade this for whiskey rounds.
The deacon slams a bottle down.
The two men start drinking.
Their hair was long and black, tied up behind.
There is the sky above and the mud below.
Their faces were identical like a man beside a mirror, the sky above, and the mud below.
Someone whispered, that beats all, they're wanted posters on the wall.
Twin brothers, name a Sandoval, horse thieves from Boquius.
Now the bridle and the belts they wore were braided gray and black the sky above and the mud below.
The color of our own horse once belonged to Deacon, black the sky above and the mud below.
Fastest horse for miles around He'd been stolen from the old fairgrounds A month ago outside of town They tracked but never found him Now the deacon was a preacher Who had fallen hard From grace the sky above And the mud below He owned the bar and a string of quarter horses that he'd race the sky above and
the mud below.
Deacon, he could drink and curse, though he still quoted sacred verse.
He was Sheriff Judge, he owned the hearse, a man you did not anger.
The sky above, the mud below, the wind and rain, the sleet and snow, two horse thieves from Mexico, drinking hard and singing.
One brother, he spoke English, Deakin' choirs as to their work, the sky above and the mud below.
The man says, mister, we braid horsehair, bridles, ropes, and quirts the sky above and the mud below.
This fine bridle I did make, a roan horse killed by a lake bone break.
He's horsehair rope, now horse meat steak.
We cleaned him to the bone.
Now these brothers, they were ignorant or didn't know just where they were.
The sky above and the mud below.
The deacon's face grew darker as he measured every word.
The sky above and the mud below.
You horsehair-braiding sons of bitches stole my claim to earthly riches.
Someone go and dig a ditch.
We'll be a-hanging.
One brother reached inside his shirt, a-searching for his gun, the sky above and the mud below.
Too late for Dickhead whipped around, a sawed-off Remington, the sky above and the mud below.
The twins, they raised their hands and sneered.
Deke was grinning ear to ear.
He says, court's in session.
Here you hear, yours truly is presiding.
The trial commenced and ended quick.
They didn't have a hope.
The sky above and the mud below.
Deke says we'll cut your hair now, boys, and you can braid yourselves.
The rope the sky above and the mud below.
The Old Testament, it says somewhere, eye for eye and hair for hair.
Covet not thy neighbor's mare.
I believe it's revelation.
Now the fancy horsehair bride.
It hangs on Deacon's wall, the sky above, and the mud below.
Next to the wanted poster of the Brothers Sandoval, the sky above, and the mud below.
And the twisted rope so shiny black, the artifact that broke their necks, the craftsmanship he did respect, they should have stuck to Braden.
The sky above, the mud below The wind and rain, the sleet and snow The deacon's hearse are rolling slow In the first blue light of morning Amen.
you you You know, back in the day, all of the frontier wasn't on the West.
America in the 18th and 19th century was actually a great maritime nation, and our ships sailed the whole world around.
Sometimes in search of whale oil for lamps and whalebone for ladies' corsets and whale tusk ivory for sculpture and kids' toys.
This was the time before Japanese factory ships and exploding harpoons.
You wanted to take down a whale.
In those days, you got into a small boat with one or two harpoons and you hunted him down yourself on the open sea.
One slap of that tail and you were all dead.
This is the Kingston Trio.
They tell you of the clipper ships are running in and out.
They say you'll take 500 whales before you're six months out.
Singing blow you in the morning, blow you in the morning.
All the way around here and blow, boys, blow.
The skippers on the afterdeck are squinting at the sails.
When up above the lookout spots a mighty school of whales.
Singing blow you in the morning, blow you in the morning.
All the way around here and blow, boys, blow.
Then lower down the boats, my boys, and after him we'll travel.
But if you get too near his tail he'll kick it to the dare where he'll sink.
Lowly winds of morning, lowly winds I owe.
All the way around here and blow, boys, blow.
And now that he is ours, Singin' Bollywoods and Bollywoods, Bollywoods, I-O!
All the way you're running gear and blow, boys, blow All the way you're running gear and blow, boys, blow When we get home, our ship may pass, and we get through our sailing.
A brim and glass around the pass, and hang this bug or whale, and sing.
Oh, the winds of bollocks, oh, the winds I hold.
Oh, hey, you're running gear, and blow, boys, blow.
Oh, boys, blow.
Oh, oh, oh, oh you I'm kicking around the notion of putting a whole section of Civil War music in this podcast, and I may decide to do it.
But in case I don't, here's a Civil War song from another country singer we've all forgotten now, Johnny Horton.
The sun shone bright and clear that day.
We all left Washington to lick the rebel boys in gray at the Battle of Bull Run.
They came from Pennsylvania.
Some from Maryland To see the rebel boys get spanked, but Ronnie Steeves brought a hand.
We said we'd run them to Atlanta and to Galveston Bay, but they ran us back to Washington, Philadelphia and Philadelphia.
The ladies wore their brightest shawls, the gentlemen were gay.
They came to see their Yankee boys with old virgin eyes.
I held my mama's hand and skipped when a soldier said to me, Would you rather have Jeff Davis hat than a sword of Bobby Lee?
We said we'll run on to Atlanta and to Galveston Bay, but they ran us back to Washington and Philadelphia.
And Philadelphia.
And Philadelphia.
And then the general dobbled his hat and said, let's rest a spell And for the first time we all heard that awful rebel yell The waters of Manassas Creek became a ruby red And many a rib and Yankee boy lay on the willow stick We said we'll run home to Atlanta and to Galveston Bay But they run us back to
Washington and Philadelphia And Philadelphia A fight locked in the chest of time, too horrible to tell Virginia's coograin countryside became a lake of hell Don't count your chicks before they're hatched or you work until it's done
Remember, yes, remember long, the battle of Bull Run We said we'll run on to Atlanta and to Galveston Bay.
But they ran us back to Washington and Philadelphia.
And Philadelphia.
Philadelphia.
you you you Thank you.
In January of 1879, less than 100 British soldiers from a Welch regiment held off over 4,000 Zulus at a place called Rourke's Drift in Natal in South Africa.
This is from Zulu, one of the greatest war movies ever made, since it was filmed in the days before political correctness when white courage and white resistance against blacks could still be portrayed in cinema.
It's never shown on TV anymore, but you can still order copies from Amazon.com.
If you've never seen the movie, get it.
It's one that should be in every white nationalist's DVD collection.
In the hundred years since the Victoria Cross was created for valor and extreme courage, beyond that normally expected of a British soldier in face of the enemy, only 1,344 have been awarded.
Eleven of these were won by the defenders of the mission station at Rourke's Drift, Natal, January 22nd to the 23rd, 1879.
Frederick Sheese, Corporal, Natal native contingent.
William Allen, Corporal, B Company, 2nd Battalion, 24th Foot.
Fred Hitch, Private, B Company, 2nd Battalion, 24th Foot.
James Langley Dalton.
Acting Assistant Commissary, Army Commissariat Department.
612 John Williams, Private, B Company, 2nd Battalion, 24th Foot.
716 Robert Jones, 593 William Jones, Privates, B Company, 2nd Battalion, 24th Foot.
Henry Hook, Private, B Company, 2nd Battalion, 24th Foot.
James Henry Reynolds, Surgeon Major, Army Hospital Corps.
Gonville Bromhead, Lieutenant, B Company, 2nd Battalion of the 24th Regiment of Foot, South Wales Borderers.
John Rouse Marriott Chard, Lieutenant, Royal Engineers, Officer Commanding, Grawick Strift.
From the lily bounds rebounding, let us hear thy sounding.
Summon all that come, his God, the mighty force surrounding.
Man of heart, unto glory, this will ever be your story.
Keep these burning words before ye.
The best man will not be.
The best man will not be.
The end of our race and civilization began in August of 1914.
I have struggled down through the years to find some decisive way of blaming the Jews for World War I, and they certainly played their part, no doubt about that.
But still, it's impossible to deny that it was mostly down to us.
For some reason, I still can't fully grasp, after years of reading and studying, I guess the men of the West just got...
Tired of peace and prosperity and civilization and order, and we decided that we were all just going to go mad and disembowel each other like werewolves.
Now, we've never recovered, and 100 years later, our race is on the edge of extinction.
This is Liam Clancy.
Hello.
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
And I'll rest for a while in the warm summer sun.
I've been walking all day and I'm nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen.
When you joined the dead heroes in 1915 Well, I hope you died quick And I hope you died clean Or Willie McBride Was it slow and obscene?
Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they sound the fight lowly?
Did the rifles fire o 'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugle sing the last post in chorus?
Where the pipes play the flowers of the forest And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind And some faithful heart is your memory enshrined And though you died back in 1915 And some faithful heart are
you forever 19 Are you a stranger without even a name?
Enshrined forever behind a glass frame In an old photograph torn and tattered and stained And fading to yellow in a bound leather frame Do they beat the drums slowly?
Do they sound the fife lowly?
Do the rifles fire o 'er you as they lower you down?
Did the bugle sing the last Boston chorus?
To the pipes lay the flowers of the forest The pipes lay the flowers of the forest Well, the sun's shining now on these green fields of France.
A warm wind blows gently and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished under the plough.
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard It is still no man's land The countless white crosses In mute witness stand To man's blood To a whole generation who was butchered and damned Do they beat the drum slurry Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o 'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the people sing the last posting chorus?
Did the pipes play the flowers of the forest?
And I can't help but wonder now, Ray, my bride.
To all those who lie here, know why they've died.
Did you really believe them when they told you the cause?
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well, the suffering, the sorrow, and the glory, the shame, The killing The dying It's all happened again and again and again and again and again.
Do they beat the drums slowly?
Do they sound the fight lowly?
Do the rifles fire o 'er you as they lower you down?
Do the bugle Despite white people's long history of exploration,
adventure, invention, discovery, and generally conquering new worlds, The fact is that down through the millennia, most of us were just ordinary working people who spent their whole lives doing jobs that they hated and raising families and just living their lives.
They were the ones who made all of the exploration and the adventure and the invention and discovery and accomplishment possible for those few among us who had that old alpha gene and who rose to the heights.
And we should never forget the peasant who, in the words of the 14th century writer, always worked so that all could eat.
This is Jody Stecker and Kate Breslin.
The birds are sweetly singing And the sun is shining bright But in our place of toiling It is as dark as night
Shut up in the mines at Coal Creek I know we're bound to die But if we'll trust in Jesus Our souls of heaven Oh,
I see my loved one.
My wife is in distress.
She does not know that her husband is going home to rest.
Shut up in the mines at Oak Creek.
We know we're bound to death.
But if we'll trust in Jesus, our soul to heaven will fly.
The sky is falling, my darling, and death is right at hand.
I'm going home to heaven, to living a better land.
Yeah.
Shut up in the mines at Oak Creek.
I know about today, but if we'll trust in Jesus, our souls to heaven will fly.
I know about today.
Thank you.
Here's a song for all of you swashbuckling adventurer types from our people's past, most of whom remain unknown and unsung to this day.
Well, not completely unsung.
This is Warren Zevon.
Roland was a warrior from the land of the midnight sun.
With a Thompson gun for hire, fighting to be done.
The deal was made in Denmark on a dark and stormy day.
So we set out for Biafra to join the bloody fray.
Through'66 and'07, they fought the Congo War With their fingers on their triggers, needing gore The days and nights they battled the band to chew their knees
They killed to earn their living And to help out the Congolese Roland the Thompson Gunner Roland the Thompson Gunner His comrades fought beside him Van Owen and the rest But of all the Thompson Gunners So
the CIA decided they wanted Roland dead.
That son of a bitch Van Owen blew off Roland's head.
Roland, the headless Thompson gun.
Always brave as sons of the score.
They can still see his headless body stalking through the night in the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun.
In the muzzle Clash of a Rollins Thompson guitar solo Roland searched the continent for the man who'd done him in.
He found him in Mombasa in a ballroom drinking gin.
Roland aimed his Thompson gun.
He didn't say a word, but he blew out a one spotty from Barry Johannesburg.
Rolling the headless Thompson Gunner.
Talking about the man.
Rolling the headless Thompson Gunner.
The eternal Thompson Gunner.
Still wandering through the night.
Now it's ten years later.
But it still keeps up the fight.
In Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine and Berkeley Finally,
here's a song from Canada's greatest folk singer, Stan Rogers, about a bunch of white guys who decide that they're going to undo fate.
And when white boys set their minds to something, it gets done.
She went down last October in a pouring drive and rain.
The skipper he'd been drinking and the maid he felt no pain.
Two clothes to three mile rock and she was dealt her mortal blow.
And the Mary Ellen Carter settled low.
There was just us five aboard her when she finally was awash.
We'd worked like hell to save her, all heedless of the cost.
And the groan she gave as she went down, it caused us to proclaim, That the Mary Ellen Carter would rise again.
Music Well, the owners wrote her off, not a nickel with this man.
She gave twenty years of service, boys, that met her sorry end.
But insurance paid the loss to us, so let her rest below Then they laughed at us and said we had to go But we talked of her all winter, some days around the clock She's worth a quarter
million, a-floating at the dock And with every jar that hit the bar, we swore we would remain And make the merry other carter rise again Rise again, rise again Let her name not be lost to the knowledge of men All those who love their best and will wither till the end Will make the merry other carter rise again
All spring now we've been wither on a barge lent by a friend Three dimes a day in a hard hat suit And twice I've had the band
Put cables to her for a nap and girded her around.
Tomorrow noon we hit the air and then take up the strain and make the Mary Ellen Carter rise again, rise again, rise again.
Better name not be lost to the knowledge of men.
Oh, those who love your best and will win for till the end Will make the merry other carter rise again guitar
solo She'd saved our lives so many times living through the gale And the laughing drunken rats who left her to a sorry grave They won't be laughing in another day And you to whom adversity has dealt the final blow
With smiling bastards lying to you everywhere you go Turn to put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain Then life will carry other carter rise again Rise again, rise again Though your heart be broken and life about to end No matter what you want
Lost be it a home, a love friend, like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.
Rise again, rise again.
Though your heart it be broken or life about to end, no matter what you've lost, be it a home, a love friend, like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.
Music.
Okay, guys, just a quick comment on the rest of this week's show.
Now, I understand that basically I'm an eccentric old coot, and my musical tastes are not necessarily yours.
I get that.
For example, it's all I can do to keep this show from becoming an Irish and Scottish music festival with many bagpipes.
But I will resist the temptation.
There will be some Irish music on here toward the end, but in a different context, which I'll explain when the time comes.
However...
I do insist on this one by a Scots balladeer named Dick Goffin, who does a lot of really great Irish stuff.
This is called A Song for Ireland.
A Song for Ireland Walking all the day By
tall, tall sweat falcons build their nests Silver when they fly They know the call of freedom and their breath
I saw blackheads against the sky with twisted rocks run to the sea.
Living on your western shore Saw summer sunsets, asked for more Stood by your Atlantic sea And sang a song for
Ireland Talking all the day We're true friends who try to make you stay Telling jokes and news And
singing songs to pass the time away We watch the Galway sand Like silver darting,
dancing in the sun Living on your western shore Saw summer sunsets, asked for more Stood by your Atlantic sea And
sang a song Drinking all the day in old pubs where fiddlers love to play.
Someone touched the ball and he played a reel which seemed so grand and gay.
Stood on Dingle Beach and cast in white
We found Atlantic Pass Living on your western shore Saw summer sunsets Asked for more Stood by your Atlantic Sea And sang a song For
Ireland Dreaming in the night I saw a land where no one had to fight But
when we came I saw you cry in the morning light While lying where the falcons fly They twist and turn all in your rare blue sky Living on your western
shore Saw summer sunset I stood by your Atlantic Sea and sang a song.
For Ireland.
For Ireland.
Now, like I've said, I know my musical taste is archaic and probably not typical of the average RFN listener.
I also understand that if I don't play some white rock music on here with at least one bow to Ian Stewart, my little bunker here in the Northwest will be stormed by a mob of shaven-headed and tattooed peasants with pitchforks and torches.
So, here comes that section of the show.
As I've commented before, in my opinion, a lot of skinhead rock and white noise deserves an A for effort and enthusiasm, but not necessarily for overall presentation.
Largely because these amateur skinhead bands usually have to record in somebody's garage or in a pub, and they simply don't have access to all the fancy electronic mixing gear and bells and whistles and skilled engineers that major recording studios have.
My major criticism has always been that the guitars and drums are always too loud and are poorly mixed with the lyrics, which also has the effect of concealing the fact that most of these guys can't sing for shit.
But there are some exceptions.
I'm going to play for you my favorite Ian Stewart cut, Built Up Knocked Down, then a number from Brutal Attack called Odin's Daughter, and then some Final Solution.
I'm going to play for you my favorite Ian Stewart.
The summer was coming, I was out in the fields, when then I heard a guitar playing loud and clear.
I saw an old man shot by a tree, he said come and listen to me son now, come and listen to me.
He said, I'm going to play for you, alright.
Doesn't mean for all I can move, trying you loose.
He said it doesn't want to be, it's to you.
He said that's a wasted life, and I've got nothing more to say to you.
Quit my job, baby.
I went night and I woke my first guitar.
Then I started running at thee, started propping up some more.
Shattered tape, got a contract, made us all so glad.
Then you started messing around for love, and I was just as bad.
Just as bad as I was.
I'm going to play for you.
Are you trying to mess us up now?
Trying to make us quit?
If that's what you're trying to do, I'm going to play for you.
I'm going to play for you.
Knocked down to the ground.
Yeah, yeah.
Knocked down.
Knocked down to the ground.
Oh, yeah.
Knocked down.
Knocked down.
Thank you.
I'll just take you that water And bloody sweet of them wine Oh, hold me, Olin's daughter Tell me you gave your mind Shorty, you're a gift from the gods above And I'm lucky enough to have your love
Shorty, you're a gift from the gods above And I'm lucky enough to have your love Olin's daughter, I love you Olin's daughter, you're mine And we will travel together Until the end of time And now you've been my baby The bondage is
complete, yeah A child to share our love with The love that sin can be here Shorty, you are gifts from the god above And I'm lucky enough to have your love And your love Shorty, you are gifts from the god above And I'm lucky enough to have your love
Oh, hold me, Olin's daughter, I love you Oh, hold me, Olin's daughter, you're mine We will travel together Until the end of time And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you And I'm lucky enough to have you
And I'm lucky enough to have you No one
ever listens Until the power's in your hands They read the biggest papers And ignore all moral stands They run in with the blind No matter
where it's gonna lead You could just lie there dying And no one hears you please You were a revolution The final solution
The chance is not to rock this boat, we gotta blow it out of the sky We gotta make this nation tremble and start gunning down their lives We try to educate them but they revel in the scum They may ignore our policy but
they will listen to the guns One revolution Final solution
Once we have the power, the people now know what you're doing Once we have the power, the people now let loose Once we have the
power, the people now let loose The traitors and the cowards in the shadow of the noose The sympathy is out
there, but the books won't spark the light They need to win this victory and see how people will fight To a revolution Final solution There ain't no turning back The fire is out
there, but the people now let loose the fire The fire is out there, but the people now let loose the fire The fire is out there, but the people now let loose the fire The fire is out there, but the people now let loose the fire White revolution, a final solution, white
revolution, yeah.
White revolution, a final solution, white revolution, yeah.
you you you you you Now, guys, can I make a quick suggestion?
You know, if we decide in our coming Northwest Revolution that we want to have rock music as some kind of theme music or whatever, we don't have to fall back on just skinhead and white noise groups.
You know, there actually is some existing rock that could be adapted quite well to our purposes.
I'll just give you a couple of quick examples here.
I'll just give you a couple of quick examples here.
I'll just give you a couple of quick examples here.
Okay, this next section of music is going to take a little explaining, and in order to understand it, you have to be familiar with my Northwest novels.
Now, I tend to open the subsections of my books with quotes from what I call Northwest rebel songs.
Most of these are unabashedly plagiarized from traditional Irish rebel songs, of the kind all the drunks used to sing in the pubs in Dublin and Tralee just before closing time.
I have always had a theory that if we can ever get our people to sing like that, we'll be halfway to winning our freedom.
However, I do get occasional questions and comments from readers who don't know these songs in the original form.
Now, they can read my altered lyrics in the books, but they don't know the tune, and not being part of that culture and background, they basically don't get it.
So, what I'll try to do in this part of the podcast is play you some of the Northwest Rebel songs in their original form that I stole them from, so you can at least get an idea of what the tune sounds like.
You guys might want to get your copies of the novels ready in your hand or on your computer, so you can follow the words along with the song, and maybe you'll get some idea of what I'm trying to convey here.
Now, I actually opened the brigade with the St. Crispin's Day speech from Shakespeare's Henry V that I played at the beginning of this week's show, and in fact, I also quoted it in The Hill of the Ravens as well.
Now, here's some of the quasi-Northwest rebel songs that you may be familiar with from the various Northwest novels in their original versions, mostly Irish, so that you can hear what the original song sounds like.
First off, from the Hill of the Ravens, and also from Freedom's Sons, there is one of the most famous of Irish rebel songs, The Foggy Dew.
This is Paddy Reilly.
It was down the Glen One Easter Hall, the city fair road I. There are no lines of marching band, it's bought when the past of the vine.
The pipe did hum their battle drum, it sounded straight at two.
But the Angelus Bell or the Libby Spell rang out in the foggy view.
Right proudly high over Dublin town, they hung out the flag of war.
It was better to die, beat an Irish guy, than silver, silver bar.
And from the plains of royal meat, some men came hurrying through.
And the Tanya's home put their long range down, sailing by the foggy view.
It was in Boombat, our wild east coast, small nations might be green.
But their lonely grains are by silver wings, the fringe of the great long seas.
Oh, how they died by pierce's side, or fought with cattle brook.
Their names were by the great long seas.
Boombat, our wild west coast, small nations might be green.
Boombat, our wild west coast, small nations might be green.
But the world is gazing deep for me, at those downhearted men but you.
Who bore the fight, that freedom's white, might shine through the foggy view.
Boombat, our wild west coast, small nations might be green.
Back to the glen, I rode again, my heart with three-four souls.
For I parted with those valiant men, I never would see no more.
And to and fro, in my dreams I will go, I kneel and I pray for you.
Oh, slavery fled, he reveled, and he fell neat the foggy tears.
Thank you.
I think you'll be able to see where that one comes from.
This is the Wolf Tones.
Sad are the homes, around Garyon, since lost their giant pride.
And the banshee cry rings every veil along the Shannon side.
That city of the ancient walls, unbroken treaty stone, undying thing surrounds your name, shone south from Gary on.
Was on a clearing New Year's Eve As the shades of light came down A lorry load of volunteers Approached the border town There were men from Dublin and
from Cork Where Lana and Tyrone And the leader was a lyric man Shot sound from Gabriel And as they moved along the street To the public store They scored the danger they might
face Their fate that lay in store They were fighting for old Ireland To blame their very own And the foremost of the callipan Was sound from Gary on But the sergeant spied their daring land He
spied them through the door The stand-up on the door And the sergeant's name in the door And the sergeant's name is the name of the king And the sergeant's name is the name of the king There was one from near the father and
one from Galio.
No evil here to see the cry for the morning shallot tide.
For he fell beneath the northern sky, brave man lived by his side.
They have got to join that gallant band of long and pierce and tall.
Have a third for all the year land, just some rock and roll.
The End you you you And again in the Hill of the Ravens, there was a Northwest Rebel song called The Boys of the Old Brigade.
And once again, we have the Wolf Tones here with the original.
As you may gather, they're from Belfast, and they specialize in this kind of repertoire.
they did back in the day.
The End
The End Where are the lads who stood with me when history was made?
Oh, Bram McCree, I long to see the voice of the old brigade.
I can't wait.
I kind of laid off the Rebel songs for the next three novels, but I got into them again in the fifth novel, Freedom Sons.
Now, this is the song that opened Section 2. And for once, it's not Irish.
It's actually an anti-Confederate song that some hippy-dippy, lefty, quasi-folk singers made up.
I'm playing it for you here so that you can match the words with the music in my version.
And by the way, yes, there's one extra verse in the actual song.
Hey, yo.
Poplar trees grew tall around our mountain farm, with corn in the fields and tobacco in the water.
Working up from Pikeville Cross to riches to our door, that men was dressed in blue and gray and headed off to war.
Our days are living good, grew short, and little did we know We'd be driven out by murderers on the Cumberland Plateau Shiloh took around, old
boy, and Johnson was his name His father called us Unionists, and he held us to blame They caught my husband by the screen, they shot him from behind Leaving nothing but those fury burning in this heart of mine I hid my babies in the woods
No one could stop those murderers on the Cumberland Plateau.
They burned the house and the fields.
They stole the cattle and the swine.
Their drunken laughter ridiculed my darling who lay dying.
No one was there to hear us as we sang our bitter tunes Of brokenhearted offers on the wretched road to Blue So we headed off the mountains to the settlement's below Driven out by murderers on the Cumberland Plateau I'm
sunburned, I'm dirty, and I'm mired in poverty And the memory of a distant grave is all that carries me My fist clenched white with
rays, my face is flooded, fuming When I tell my sons the names of the men who shot their father dead Yes, they're unforgiving eyes to show.
Won't forget those murderers on the Cumberland Plateau Thank
you.
Thank you.
My sons, I'll need them soon as they have strength enough to hold a gun.
Cause we'll be going back as soon as this world turns around.
And the hollers, peeps, and snakes will ring with the blood of bad sons.
Back up to Kentucky, where the oak and palm were grown.
Back to slay those murderers on the Cumberland Plateau.
Back up to Kentucky, where the oak and poplar grow.
Back to slay those murderers on the Cumberland Plateau The Cumberland Plateau Thank you.
Section 3 of Freedom Sons opened with a song about my fictitious Northwest Quantrol type, O.C. Oglevy, and it's based on a very famous Irish number called The Boys of Kill Michael.
I'm sorry, but I can't tell you who sings this because I don't seem to have made a note of the fact when I ripped it off YouTube.
While we honor in song and in story the memory of Pearson Macri, whose names are loomed in glory by Martha's longhouse and sty.
Forget not the boys of Kilmichael, who feared not the might of the foe.
The day that they marched into battle, they laid all the black and tans low.
So here's to the boys of Kilmichael, those brave lads so gallant and true.
They fought me the green flag of Aaron and conquered the red, white and blue.
On the 28th day of November, the tans left the town of Macroo.
They were seating in two costly tenders and was bringing them straight to their doom.
They were all on the road to Kilmichael and never expecting to stop.
They there met the boys from the column who made it flee and sweep all the lot.
So here's to the boys of Kilmichael, those brave lads so gallant and true.
They fought me the green flag of Aaron and conquered the red, white and blue.
The sun in the west it was sinking to the eve of a cold winter's day.
When the tans we were eagerly waiting sailed into the spot where we lay.
And over the hill came the echo, the peal of the rifle and gun.
And the flames from the lads so gallant and true.
They fought me the green flag of Aaron and conquered the red, white and blue.
The lorries were out before twilight and high over the pan of waves glow.
The lorries were out before twilight and the red, white and blue.
The lorries were out before twilight and the red, white and the red, white and blue.
The lorries were out before twilight and the red, white and the red, white and blue.
The lorries were out before twilight and the red, white and blue.
The lorries were out before twilight and the red, white and blue.
The epilogue to Freedom Sons opens with a Northwest song called Winston Wayne's Escape, which I adapted from this piece by Andy Irvine about an event that actually took place in 1803 in the Wicklow Mountains outside Dublin.
Music Michael Twire is my name.
I'll not deny the same in the mountains of Westwick, though I was born.
I was in a fight of late with the men of 98 when we took an escort by storm.
When the rising was put down, we very quickly found that in our own homes we could no longer dwell.
Ah, but many's a lonely cave Some form of comfort gave And the people of these mountains know us well Well,
the snow was falling fast And the night was far advanced When the three safe houses came in view The weather was severe, but a guard was posted near, though the dangers on a night like this seemed few.
But some sneaking little spy to his master he did fly, and may I live to even up the score.
For it's when we awoke, to be sure it was no joke to find a hundred highland soldiers at the door.
Come out, you rebel band, cried the captain in command.
You do not have a prayer, not a hope.
Surrender to me now, and your lives I vow will be spared the bullet and the rope.
Says Dwyer to his men, boys, here we are again, the wife afraid this time it cannot be denied.
It would take more than God's grace to defend this place from a regiment of soldiers outside.
The house was set on fire with Macalester and Dwyer expecting to perish in the plains.
With the powder and the smoke, they were nearly overcome, crying a curse upon your bloody Highland Games.
From behind a stable wall, a well-aimed musket ball caused Macalester pain he could not hide.
As his gun was blown away, he looked down with dismay at his arm, hanging useless by his side.
He says, Dwyer, I'm done.
Hand me up your gun, let's see what a spring you can make.
As he opened the door, he gave one loud roar, I die for my country's sake.
The volley rang out and Dwyer sprang forth, poor Sam received the fire.
Oh, generous and brave, Macalester gave up his life for Michael Dwyer.
Thank you.
Well, before they could reload, he was halfway down the road with a kilted Scotsman snapping at his heels.
The troopers held their fire till they saw what might transpire, and they watched as Dwyer tripped him in the field.
Running like a mountain goat, no trousers, no coat, his bare feet were bleeding to be sure.
As he crossed the black banks, he offered hearty thanks and got safely to a cave in Glenmalore.
We lost three men that day, our captain got away and the others surrendered on the spot.
Three of them, alas, were hanged in bolting glass.
The others went before the firing squad.
Dwyer thought the law five years, maybe more, till at last to Dublin he did go.
And from there he set sail, bound for New South Wales, far from the county Wicklow.
New South Wales
New South Wales There's a couple of these songs that I didn't use in the novels, but I've always thought that they would adapt really well to any NVA-style Northwest Revolution that might come about in real life.
This is another unknown singer, followed by the Clancy Brothers.
We'll raise our voices in Ireland's praise, glad are our hearts today.
For Ireland's sons have proved their worth in the good old IRA.
All parts of the world boroughs seem blue, but we are record made.
In good old talk, in vain West Corp, the third West Corp Brigade.
The blackened hands to Ireland came.
Their daughtiest warrior, Sally Park, and lorries from the crew.
But until Michael's bloody fight, their conquering course will stay.
In good old Cork, in faint west Cork, the third west Cork Brigade.
Then across Barry's battlefield, our gallant boys saw red.
For ten to one, the Saxon host, before our onslaught fled.
And o'er the hills we made our way, while our gun hyper played.
In good old Cork, in faint west Cork, the third west Cork Brigade.
Our boys fought well in every fight, we need not call an aid.
But Covenants, Hales and Barry, are now well known to fame.
Napoleon lied, they led us on, with courage we obeyed.
In good old Cork, in faint west Cork, the third west Cork Brigade.
But in our triumphs we shan't forget, how come Ray's grave who fell.
Some sleep today in maimous graves, but soon their deeds will tell.
In great fall, in faint west Cork, the third west Cork Brigade.
Here's a kind of funny side about a motor car that we launched with Dr. Johnson.
Just on my breading at its corner, one morning I did stray.
I met a fellow rebel, and to me did say, We have orders from our captain to assemble at Dunbar.
But how are we to get there without a motor car?
Oh Barney, dear, we are good cheer, I'll tell you what we'll do.
The specials, they are political, but they are a...
Hooray!
We've been no air to Johnson, to me just as grand now.
When we give the poison bloody, bloody Johnson's golden car.
When Dr. Johnson heard the news, he soon put on his shoes.
He said, this is an urgent case, there is no time to lose.
He then put on his caster hat and on his breast a star.
You could hear the tin all through Glenfin of Johnson's mother car.
How was when he got to the railway bridge, the letters he saw there?
How Johnson knew the game was up, but I had a lady's fare.
He said, I have a parent to power near and far.
Go to hell with your English, parent.
What will my loyal brother think when they hear the news?
My car, it has been commandeered by the rebels at the Loose.
We'll give you a receipt for it, all signed by Captain Barr.
Heaven Island gets her freedom, I'll get your mother car.
Well, they put that car in motion, and they'll want to walk them.
When guns and bernets shining, which made old Johnson blimp.
When Marty Feist, the shit went like a brother, like a star.
And they give me cheers for the IRA, and Johnson's more America.
Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee.
Woo!
Thank you.
I know I'm probably alone in my enthusiasm for medieval history, but, you know, I've just got to go medieval on your ass at some point during this show.
After the Black Death in 1348, which wiped out one-third of the population of Europe, and in some places half, and in other places killed everybody, A certain weird kind of art started appearing carved on church walls and in illuminated manuscripts,
tapestries, so forth and so on, which features a kind of Halloween motif with dancing skeletons doing a kind of rumba or conga line through the streets and through graveyards with open coffins and rotting corpses all around.
And these zombie-like skeletons always confront handsome and well-dressed young men and maidens from This is a dance called Dumpate by a group called Codex Calixtanus,
and it's more or less contemporary with the Black Death.
I always figured that this would make a great dance macabre.
I always figured that this would make a great dance macabre.
I always figured that this would make a great dance macabre.
Also, you guys just know I have to have some Ralph Stanley in here somewhere.
We'll be right back.
Too shy, better girls, mad for loving Little Maggie was mad, she was mine Little
Maggie was mad, she was mad Little Maggie was
mad, she was mad We're coming up on two hours now, and that's about the limit of the attention span I can reasonably expect from Americans, even when it's music and very short voiceovers.
So, for our final cut tonight, I think it's appropriate that we play a classic song that has defined and encapsulated the whole American political and social culture for the past 50 years.
Ladies, gentlemen, comrades, I will leave you tonight With the voice of two generations of the American experience.
Insofar as the soul of our nation can be contained in a few short minutes of song, this is it.
God bless America.
Remember when you ran away and I got on my knees and begged you not to leave because I'd go berserk?
Well, you left me anyhow and then the days got worse and worse and now you see I've gone completely out of my mind.
And they're coming to take me away, ha ha, they're coming to take me away, ho ho, hee hee, And I'll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats and they're coming to take me away!
You thought it was a joke and so you laughed.
You laughed when I had said Losing you would make me flip my lip.
Right?
You know you laughed.
I heard you laugh.
You laughed, you laughed and laughed and then you left, but now you know I'm utterly mad.
And they're coming to take me away, ha ha, they're coming to take me away, ho ho, he he, ha ha.
To the happy home with trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes and they're coming to take me away, ha ha.
I cooked your food, I cleaned your house and this is how you pay me back for all my kind, unselfish, loving deeds, ha ha.
Well, you just wait, they'll find you yet, and when they do, they'll put you in the ASPCA, you mangy mutt.
And they're coming to take me away, ha ha, they're coming to take me away, ho ho, hee hee, ha ha.
To the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time, and I'll be happy to see those nice young men in their clean white coats, and they're coming to take me away, ha ha ha.
To the happy home, with trees and flowers and chirping birds and basket weavers, who sit and smile and twiddle their thumbs and toes, and they're coming to take me away, ha ha ha.
To the funny farm, where life is beautiful all the time, and I'll be happy to see those.
Well, our time is up, and so that's it for this week's edition of Radio Free Northwest.
This program is brought to you by the Northwest Front, Post Office Box 4856, Seattle, Washington 98104, or you can go to the party's website at www.northwestfront.org.
This is Harold Covington, and I'll see you next week.
Until then, Sasha on the bond.
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