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Dec. 31, 2013 - Radio Free Nortwest - H.A. Covington
01:59:53
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Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so.
Hush-a-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 for four for signal, token, whistle up and arching through.
For your bike upon your shoulder By the rising of the moon By the rising of the moon By the rising of the moon With your bike upon your shoulder By the rising of the moon Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes Were watching through the night Many a man's chest was rubbing For the blessed warming light The waters 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 blades were flashing At the rising of the moon Greetings from the Northwest Homeland, comrades.
It's New Year's Eve, December the 31st, 2013.
I'm Harold Covington, and this is Radio Free Northwest.
I started this podcast in January of 2010, and next month will be the beginning of the fourth year of Radio Free Northwest.
Boy, time flies when you're having fun.
This will be the fourth end-of-the-year broadcast, and insofar as anything only four years old can be said to have traditions, A tradition has developed that in the last Radio Free Northwest show of every year,
I always do 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 talking about the songs and the artists, and about 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 questions from Radio Free Northwest listeners wanting to know if I'm worried if I'm going to get sued for music piracy or depriving some poor multi-millionaire rock star of the 50 cents worth of royalties that my single replay of his work should bring him under the law.
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 so far that hasn't happened.
We'd have to be noticed to get sued, and sometimes I think that the mysterious dark powers who are running the media blackout on everything the Northwest Front does don't allow that because suing us would be a form of publicity, which it has been decided that we ain't going to get no way, no how.
So let me recap for you 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 that most of you already agree with anyway or you know about.
Like everyone else in the movement, I do a lot of preaching to the choir.
That reminds me of the meetings of the old John Burt Society, where after the tea and cookies, the chapter leader would set up a boombox on a table, and all the little old men in their suits and the blue-haired ladies would listen like mesmerized zombies to Robert Welch on a cassette tape, bloviating on and on and on and on and on,
and this droning old man's voice about communism and insiders and mattoids and bizarre world conspiracies trying to explain everything away, which included, of course, everybody on 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, and so I use music.
But there's a lot more important reasons that I play music on here, specifically the music I choose to play.
This is not just Harold spinning his CDs here like a DJ.
Every now and then, I'll play something just because I like it, but there's usually a reason why I choose to play a certain specific cut.
Now, as trite and as cliche as this sounds, a people's music is the soul of that people revealed for all to hear, and this is 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 innuendos 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 old 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 that's the oldest written musical tablature that can be identified and understood by today's paleographers and historians.
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's found any examples of it yet.
And if we did, we probably wouldn't know what we were looking at.
That's not surprising, since actual documents from classical times are very rare, due to the deterioration of paper and parchment over the centuries.
Anyway...
Who knows?
Someday, maybe there will be a break on that front, and we can actually listen to the songs and the music that Pericles plunked on his lyre in the Parthenon and Julius Caesar's DJ spun at Roman orgies.
But for now, the earliest surviving authenticated historic Arian 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 these songs on Radio Free Northwest, 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 everything 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 at how many people's musical world begins with 1960s golden oldies that they can remember from their childhood on the radio and ends with Super Tramp.
Even people who are starting to experience racial awakening.
In the past year, I've kind of themed the music programs in a half-assed way, sometimes with a kind of March of Time history of Aryan music, starting with the oldest and on down to Steve Earle and Jefferson Airplane.
This year, I'm just going to play it by ear, pardon the expression, and see if I can work up a musical program that gives an overall picture of our people's racial personality and little bits and pieces of our heritage.
If nothing else, it should be a refreshing change to hear about a history that isn't all niggers inventing the airplane and sword-swinging bimbos in armored bikinis.
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 more ordinary kinds of people and events, although once you get to know the history of the world, nothing our people do is really ordinary.
Like I said once 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.
Now, in my Weird Aryan History series, which is a series of written articles, and in some other areas, I sometimes get criticized for not having enough Vikings.
You see, for some young white kids growing up in this profoundly ignorant world, they have only a very vague awareness of three Aryan historic periods.
There's the Third Reich, the Civil War Confederate era, and, of course, Vikings.
Vikings, Vikings, Vikings!
Okay, Vikings there shall be!
We'll start off with a Viking so old that he isn't even a Viking, but he comes from before their time.
Roughly, they figure, about the 5th century A.D. His name is Beowulf, the hero of the oldest English document or story in recorded history, and the language is so old that today's scholars call it, you guessed it, Old English.
You know, it's...
Really an incredible story here.
I didn't know this myself until recently, but Beowulf almost didn't survive into the modern era.
Okay, long and complex story short.
Sometime around the 12th century or so, some monk, who possibly just had nothing better to do, wrote down the story of Beowulf, the legend that he had heard from some of his Anglo-Saxon peasants on the manor lands or whatever.
Wrote it down, it got shelved away in the monastery scrolls and forgotten about.
Somehow or other, this story ended up in the work of a collector of the 16th century.
That's when gentlemen started collecting things in England.
And finally, it was found in the late 18th century by some scholarly Danish type who was just digging around in a pile of old books in London.
And he found this ancient book or collection, I'm not even sure what it was, with this monastic account of this ancient Anglo-Saxon legend about Beowulf in it.
That is the only written document or written source or even reference that we have to Beowulf.
If that one book had been lost, with it would have been lost one of the greatest heroic sagas of our race.
Anyway, a little bit of historical trivia for you there.
Listen good, boys and girls.
As far as we can reconstruct the pronunciation, this is what our ancestors really sounded like.
"Quet we gardener in Yardagon, thou'd cunin'a thrung frunon, houth aethelling a cell and fremdon.
Oft shield-shaving, c'ethere a thread, the moniker make them mails hava.
He saw the eras, so th'an erest werth felshaft funden.
He thas froffery, but weelts in the walk num erthminum tha, Oth that him eghwilds dara unseethenre, aevech runnra, de huran showre gombein yelan, Thad was good, cunin'n.
Tham eeffere awe, saft egen ee dunganjere, dantan ee gorgsind, Full pittu froffere, purean thafere, on yye, thati eghwilds gane, aldol ee zet langweel." Himthas lifreia, a wolder's weld, an'warla'd aphureia, Beowulf west brame, a blad weed sprung, shielder's aphra, shillandum ee.
Than the weak oom loud glastin, Loft at'em shell and maith aguehre, Mange thea.
With a shudgoa to gersht af wille, Fela chroa feiran an fredan ware, He hyuneth a earthran to bremas farthe, Swayze geseed as, Swahe self abad, Denden worldum weld, Ween schuldingas, Lauf landfrum a lange aghte.
The art hughes dood gringens defna, Isikonudfus evelinges fair.
The art hughes dood gringens defna, Isikonudfus, isi.
Among them were a set of chess pieces carved in an odd Nordic fashion, which I won't try to describe, but it was interesting because up until then, we didn't realize that chess had been introduced that early into Europe.
I think you can still order imitation chess sets with the pieces made like this from the Northern Ireland Historical Trust or some such as a...
Kind of a fundraising thing they do.
I can't remember all the details, but the Scottish folk singer Doogie McLean was so inspired by the sight of these ancient Viking chess pieces in the museum that he wrote this song.
The American Pronunciation Guide Presents "How to Pronounce Thee"
From ship to shining shore Out of an
age when time was young Across the silver ocean's floor Their endless battle has begun They burn upon the open hand Blinding all who see
They feast upon the desert land Marching on They burn upon the open hand
Marching, marching, marching, marching Mr. Lee She holds her weary hand
Her heavy horsemen stand alone It's for the living and the dead To search their fortune To search their fortune Far from home They burn upon the open hand They burn upon the open hand
Blinding all who see They feast upon the desert land They feast upon the desert land Marching, marching, marching, marching Mystery, marching, marching Mystery Marching, marching Marching, marching Mystery Marching, marching,
marching Mystery Thank
you.
Thank you.
Now, some modern-day Vikings for you.
This is a piece called Dagger by the Norwegian Black Metal or Black Something Band.
I'm sorry, I forget what this type of music is called.
Anyway, the group's name is Wardruna.
KINUNKA.
We'll be right back.
And finally, this is the Scottish tenor Kenneth McKellar with a song about Vikings.
It's called The Long Ships.
The Long Ships
Right, now let's make a quick musical trip forward in time from the Dark Ages to the Middle Ages.
This is a time when we can actually read the musical tablature of the day, and so we can actually figure out the tunes and the lyrics and at least make some approximation of what Aryan music sounded like to the ears of our ancestors.
Now, top of the pops back in the 15th century would probably be this golden oldie that I'm going to play for you now.
It's called the Agincourt Carol, and this is a song from the Hundred Years' War about the Battle of Agincourt, which took place on October 25, 1415, wherein an army of something like 9,000 Englishmen, mostly yeoman archers, completely smashed and defeated a French army of between 40,000 and 50,000 men, consisting, largely, of mounted knights in armor.
I won't go off into a long discourse on medieval military history, but suffice it to say that wasn't supposed to happen.
Now, this battle is an excellent testimony to missile power in the hands of common soldiers and peasants against the upper classes on their horsies.
And so, I'm sure all the many gun nuts in our audience will get off on it, even though the English weren't packing guns but six-foot longbows.
There's another little senile ramble here.
Now, you may remember sometime during the past year, I sent out an article from a British newspaper to the Northwest Revolution list, and it had a forensic anthropologist's reconstruction of the face of one of the drowning victims on the Mary Rose, which sank in 1545.
This man was one of Henry VIII's archers who drowned in yet another war with France over a century later.
Archaeologists have determined from fragments that were brought up that some of the longbows they found in that wreck would have been six feet long and had a hundred to 120-pound pull.
You know, our people did fight wars before the invention of gunpowder.
Anyway, if you'd been in your local tavern, or at the banquet of some powerful baron or archbishop back in the 1400s, and they had the local rock group in for a concert, this is probably what you would have heard.
This is Ian Giles.
A few weeks ago, I wandered off into a long digression on arranged marriages and the institution of marriage in general.
And being the senile old coot I am, I started to ramble on and on about some of the more unusual medieval arranged marriages among the nobility with their age differences between the parties involved.
And I won't bore you with that.
By repeating it, but even in those days, such differences in age and temperament caused comment and gossip, and were topics for minstrel songs and ballads.
This is one about a lady of 24, whose father ended up marrying her to a 14-year-old, and she seems rather pissed off about it.
Of course, if she were a schoolteacher in today's America with a 14-year-old toy boy from among her students, she'd end up getting arrested and having her picture all over the internet, and probably going on the talk show circuit.
This is Pentangle.
Pentangle.
He's young but he's daily growing.
Father, dear Father, you've done me great long.
You've married me to a boy who is too young.
I am twice twelve and he is but fourteen.
He's young but he's daily growing.
Daughter, dear daughter, I've done you no wrong.
I've married you to a great Lord's son.
He'll be a man to you and I'm dead and old.
His young boy is daily growing.
Father, dear Father, if you receive it.
You'll send my Lord to college for a while to eat.
Tie blue ribbons all around his head.
To let the ladies know that he's married.
One day I was looking on my father's castle wall.
I saw all the boys are playing the ball.
My own true love was a flower of lemon.
He's young but he's daily growing.
guitar solo
guitar solo
guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo you you you you Thank you.
I was considering having a whole section in this program on just murder ballads alone, but since most of the victims in those songs are female, I figured that probably would be a little misogynistic, and we do have female listeners.
But there is one song from way back that, while it doesn't have a murder in it, it does have incest, adultery, suicide, a ghost, necrophilia, and just about everything else that titillated the ancient Aryan love of sleaze and scandal and schadenfreude.
Not to mention today's white love of sleaze and scandal and schadenfreude, which is why so many medieval ballads sound like they came out of the National Enquirer.
Apparently, white people have always been pretty sleazy when it comes to enjoying other people's dysfunctional lives and adventures.
There's something else about this one.
It's called Little Margaret, and I read in one of my many obscure books long ago, can't remember where, that it is the oldest known ballad that has survived in English.
The first mention of a song that appears to be this song's remote ancestor being written down in the 11th century.
This is one of those ballads where you get the impression that long, long ago, in a place and time and a world that no longer exists, something very weird happened.
This is Walter Forbes.
This is Walter Forbes.
Little Margaret is sitting in her high-haul chair, combing her long yellow hair.
When she saw sweet William and his newlywed bride coming down the road so near, she threw down her ivory comb, threw back her long yellow hair.
Saying I'll just go and bid him farewell, never more to go there.
It was all lately in the night, when they were fast asleep.
Little Margaret appeared all dressed in white, standing at carpet table Says, "How do you like your snow white, though?" "How do you like your sheet?" "And how do you like the pretty little damsel lying in your arms asleep?"
Quite well, I like my snow-white glow Well, I like my sheep Much better I like the pretty little maiden standing at my bed feet.
Thank you.
Then he called for his serving men to go Saddle up his dapperon And he rode straight away to his father's house Knocked on the door Is little Margaret in her room?
Or is she in the hall?
Little Margaret's a lion in her cold art coffin Her face turned to the wall Unwind and wind those snow-white robes Be they ever so fine I must kiss those cold,
cold lips I know they'll never kiss mine Once he kissed that lily-white man Twice he kissed that cheek Three times he kissed those cocoa lips Then he fell in her arms asleep Three times he kissed those cocoa lips Then he
fell in her arms asleep Finally, I'm going to play for you guys another very old song of medieval origins, at least, although this is an American folk version.
It's probably the second oldest ballad that has survived in English.
This is almost as good as Little Margaret.
It's got jealousy, murder, the desecration of a corpse, and supernatural vengeance.
We know it goes back at least to the Tudor era, and probably it's way older than that.
This is one of the hundred or so versions that have come down to us of one called The Cruel Sister, and it's performed by a group of rock musicians associated with Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead, who appears here.
Garcia and his picking buddies from the Dead used to say that they played rock and roll when they wanted to make money, and they played bluegrass and old time when they wanted to make music.
This is an Americanized version, and actually it's called Wind and Rain.
I thought it was my fault.
No, I think it's my fault.
There were two sisters came walking down the street Oh, the wind didn't rain One behind pushed the other one in Oh, the dreadful wind didn't rain Oh, the wind didn't rain
Johnny gave the youngest a gay gold ring Oh, the wind and rain Didn't give the oldest one anything Crying old the dreadful wind and rain They pushed her into the river to drown The wind and rain Watched her as she floated down Crying over the dreadful wind and
rain Crying over the dreadful
wind and rain So did she came to a miller's pond On the wind and rain My old father asked him to swat her Crying over the dreadful wind and rain The miller pushed her out with a fishing hook On the wind and
rain A few nut fair made from the brook Crying over the dreadful wind and rain He left her on the page to dry Crying over the wind and rain When a fiddled fool come fast and by Crying over the dreadful wind and
rain Out of the woods came a fiddled airfare All the wind and rain Took thirty strands of her long yellow hair Crying over the dreadful wind and rain And he made a fiddled fool of her long yellow hair And he made a fiddled fool of her long yellow hair
Crying over the dreadful wind and rain He made fiddled pegs of her long finger bones Crying over the dreadful wind and rain Crying over the dreadful wind and rain And he made a fiddled pegs of her long finger bones Crying over the dreadful wind and rain Crying over the dreadful wind and rain And he made a fiddled pegs of her long finger bones Crying over the dreadful wind and rain And he made a fiddled pegs of her long finger bones Crying over the dreadful wind and rain Crying over the dreadful wind and rain And he made a fiddled pegs of her long finger bones Crying over the dreadful wind and
rain Crying over the dreadful wind and rain And the sound could melt the heart of a stone Crying over the dreadful wind and rain And the only tune that fiddled the play Was all the wind and rain The only tune that fiddle would play was, oh, the dreadful wind in.
Oh, oh, oh, oh
Oh,
oh, oh, oh, oh Thank you.
That's all there is to that, Ted.
Oh, I might mention that in some of the older and longer versions of that song, when the minstrel brings in the harp or the fiddle or whatever that's made out of the dead girl's assorted body parts and he starts to play it and the ghost of the girl uses the instrument to finger her sister is the one who knocked her off.
The boyfriend, and some of these older versions, gets really pissed off, and he jumps up, and he draws out his sword, and he starts cutting off people's heads, right, left, and center.
I consider playing one of those older versions for you, because you can find them on the internet, but as with many medieval ballads, if you play the whole thing, they're, you know, 12, 15 minutes long, and that's just too long for this show.
Okay, moving right along here.
Let's ease on up in time a little to the 16th century, which is when the Renaissance hit full flower, as well as goodies like the Protestant Reformation, international banking, and the sweating sickness.
The 1500s were pretty bumptious, not just in English-speaking countries, but in Europe as well, especially in Germany, where, for a variety of complex reasons, the shit really hit the fan, with the whole Martin Luther telling the Pope to go transubstantiate his ass kind of thing.
In 1525, in Germany, occurred the Great Peasants' War, what was probably the largest popular uprising of the common people against their feudal and religious lords and masters in white history, until the French Revolution of 1789, anyway.
The peasants and miners took over farms and silver mines and killed the noblemen and the Catholic priests who'd been running things in Germany for centuries.
And needless to say, the established governments of the German principalities struck back, and an estimated 100,000 people were killed in a period of several months, mostly the peasants themselves, since they had very little in the way of military leadership or weapons or organization.
However, there were a few exceptions, and one of these was a knight from Franconia named Florian Geyer, who became a leader of the rebellious peasants and actually managed to create a troop of disciplined mounted men, properly armed and led, who were distinguished by wearing black cloaks and armor, and they were called the Black Company.
Geyer was a master of hit-and-run guerrilla tactics, and he lasted a lot longer than most of the other rebels, becoming a kind of German swamp fox or quantral who refused to surrender.
He was eventually either killed in battle defending the last rebel stronghold at Ingolstadt, or he was betrayed and murdered by two of his own servants for the hefty reward that the church had placed on his head, depending on which legend you believe.
Either way, everybody seems to agree that Geyer's body was buried secretly in the Grumschatz forest, and the location has been lost, so his final resting place is unknown, which gives him a kind of Robin Hood-like ear of mystery.
Florian Geyer became a kind of folk hero to the German people because he died trying to set them free from tyranny and bondage to rich assholes in expensive suits.
That have a familiar ring to it?
The parallel between Geyer's men and their black armor and a certain other black-uniformed German outfit was too obvious to miss, and so in the Second World War there was an SS unit called the Florian Geyer Division.
I also adopted the name for one of my fictional SS divisions in Freedom's Sons.
The German folk remember him to this day in this song.
This is the Buttho Lucas Chorus.
This is the Buttho Lucas Chorus.
We are a black horse, and we are full of tyrannies, and a half.
Spieß voran, drauf und dran, setzt aufs Flusterdach den roten Arm.
Als Adam Roth und Eva sprang Kyrieleis, wo war denn da der Edelmann Kyrieleis?
Spieß voran, drauf und dran, setzt aufs Flusterdach den roten Arm.
Spieß voran, drauf und dran, setzt aufs Flusterdach den roten Arm.
Uns führt der Florian Geier an, Trotz, Acht und Bann.
Den Bundschuh führt er in der Fahrt, Handhelm und armisch an.
Spieß voran, drauf und dran, setzt aufs Flusterdach den roten Arm.
Spieß voran, drauf und dran, setzt aufs Flusterdach den roten Arm.
Bei Weizberg setzt es Rand und Stang, hei ja, oh ho.
Gar mancher über die Klinge sprang, hei ja, oh ho.
Spieß voran, drauf und dran, setzt aufs Flusterdach den roten Arm.
Spieß voran, drauf und dran, geschlagen ziehen wir nach Haus.
Hei ja, oh ho.
Unsere Enkel fechten's besser aus, hei ja, oh ho.
Spieß voran, drauf und dran, setzt aufs Flusterdach den roten Arm.
Jane was one of those incredibly rare people at any Renaissance court, hell, rare anywhere in the corridors of power to this day, who seems to have had no enemies, and no one ever had a bad word to say about her.
Her scheming father and brothers, yes, they were proper vicious Renaissance yuppies, but to historians' astonishment, everybody from the common people on up really seemed to have loved Jane.
She was beautiful, kind, gentle, and always trying to use her position to help the poor and the sick.
She was just plain a good person, and she seems also to have been one of the few people who could talk Henry down out of his increasingly frequent murderous rages, which really made her popular at court.
She died on October 24, 1537, of infection from a cesarean section childbirth, which, in those days of unsterilized instruments and medical ignorance, was pretty much always a death sentence for women.
She was 28 years old.
This is Planksty.
Queen Jane, Lynn, Labour
For nine days or more Till the women grew so tired They could no longer there They could no longer there Good women When
you open my right side and find my baby and find my baby Oh no crying That's a thing that never
can be.
We will send for King Henry and hear what he may say.
And hear what he may say.
King Henry was Thank you.
Thank you.
Your eyes, they look so dim.
Your eyes, they look so dim.
King Henry, King Henry, will you do one thing for me?
That's to open my right side.
And find my baby.
And find my baby.
O Lord, cried King Henry, That's a thing I never do.
If I lose the flower of England, I shall lose the branch too.
I shall lose the branch too I shall lose the
branch too I shall lose the
branch too I shall lose the branch
too
After which, to make a long and complex story as short as possible, the whole Catholic-Protestant thing came into play again, and both sides put up female candidates for the throne.
The Protestant candidate was a teenager named Lady Jane Grey, and the Catholic candidate was old King Henry's oldest daughter Mary, who went down in history as Bloody Mary.
Guess who won?
Jane Grey was Queen of England for all of nine days before Mary marched into London with an army and snatched her ass off the throne and threw in the Tower of London.
She and her husband were executed in February of 1554.
She was all of 17 years old.
There's a movie about all this, by the way, called Lady Jane, starring Olivia Bonham Carter and Carrie Elwes, if you're interested.
It's not half bad.
Anyway, while she was in prison, one of the officers of the Tower of London, who was in charge of guarding her, was apparently not quite so heartless as Bloody Mary, and he was touched and saddened at watching her while she waited around to die.
And he wrote this poem, which was later at some point set to music, either at the time or possibly many years later.
Now, no one knows who this poet was, which isn't surprising in view of what would have happened to any of Mary's officers who showed any obvious sympathy for a Protestant who tried to seize the throne.
But although the man's name has not survived, his words have.
piano plays softly
piano plays softly
I saw her queenly, meek and mild, as innocent, as any...
A flower among her flowers Among her flowers content
I come again and in her place
A silence and a vacant room And in my heart a sudden gloom That I no more shall see No more shall see There
was a word I might have said But what it was I do not know I let the days fly by You
know, after all that sad and depressing music about white women dying young, I think we need a pick-me-up.
How about we take a quick hop back about a century and a half to the Middle Ages again for a good, rousing battle song.
This is the Corys.
It would be a serious mistake indeed to harbour the impression that our Scottish ancestors spent their hatred and their energies on fighting only the English.
In between times, they kept in shape by fighting amongst themselves.
Thus it was that in the year 1411, Donald of the Isles, with 10,000 of his fighting men, descended on Dingwall and Inverness to lay claim to the lands of Ross.
And come ye pray the Helens man Come ye all the way Saw ye MacDonald and Oz men as they come in frae sky away.
A-durum-a-doo-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum-a-durum- We're
Lord for this day To his brother did say Oh brother, didn't he you see They've driven us back And I'm cosite And we'll be forced to flee Oh no,
no, no My brother dear This thing it might be You'll take your good sod In your hand And you'll gun in with me Oh hey The first blow That Lord for this struck The sword ran in in hell The second blow Lord for this struck The great MacDonald fell away A
drum, a-doo A tree and a drum A-dum, a-doo, drum-dray Sick a cry free among the healing men When they see their leader fall They carted him and buried him along By fair harlow A-dum, a-doo, a tree and a drum A-dum, a-doo, drum-dray
A-dum, a-doo, drum-dray
Now, the 17th and 18th centuries had a lot of really great music.
But it's all band and choral and orchestra, plus harpsichord and weird instruments like zithers and whatnot, and most of those pieces are too long to be played on here.
So let's take a big leap forward to the 19th century and the Napoleonic Wars.
Nowadays, we consider Napoleon to be something of a joke.
He's a comic figure in Hollywood, a little guy with a funny accent and oversized boots and a blue coat.
I know that incestuous kike Woody Allen thought Napoleon was just hysterical.
He did a New York Jewish takeoff on war and peace, if you can imagine such a thing, and he made Napoleon into a figure of fun.
But in his day, Bonaparte really scared the bejesus out of the crowned heads of Europe and the wealthy power structure of the day, just like Hitler did 130 years later.
They assembled the biggest armies in white history up until that time in order to stop him.
This is a selection of Napoleonic music from Planxty, the Sharps Rifles soundtrack, and British singer John Tams.
Enjoy!
Oh, Napoleon Bonaparte, you're the cause of my woe Since my bonnie light horseman to the wars he did go Broken-hearted, I'll wander.
Broken-hearted, I'll remain.
Since my bonnie light horseman, in the wars he was slain.
When Coney commanded his armies to stand, and proud waved his banners, all Galian brand.
I leveled his cannons right over the plain, and my bonnie light horseman in the wars he was slain.
Oh, Napoleon Bonaparte, you're the cause of my woe, since my bonnie light horseman to the wars he did go.
I'll wander, broken-hearted I'll remain, since my bonnie light horseman, in the wars he was slain.
And if I was some small bird, and had wings and could fly, I would fly o 'er the salt sea, where my true love does lie.
Since he left this bright shore, oh, my Bonnie Light Horseman, will I near see you more?
Oh, Napoleon Bonaparte, you're the cause of my woe.
Since my Bonnie Light Horseman, to the wars he did go, brokenhearted.
Broken-hearted, I'll remain Since my bonnie light horseman In the wars he was slain And the dove she loved and scored Heard a mate as she flies Oh,
Tell me where is my true love's size And where in this white world Is there one to compare With my body light horseman Who was killed in the war Who was
killed in the war Oh
Napoleon, oh Napoleon, you're the cause of my war Since my body light horseman Through the wars he let go Broken hearted I'll wander Broken hearted I'll remain Since my body light horseman In the wars he was slain
guitar solo guitar solo guitar solo
guitar solo
guitar solo guitar solo Oh O'er the hills and
o'er the way King George guitar solo O'er the hills and
o'er the way O'er the hills and o'er the way O'er the hills and o'er the way O'er the hills and o'er the way Through Flanders Forge Forged in God in Spain King George commends In New York Bay Over the hills And far away If I
should fall to light no more As many comrades did before Then asked the pipes and drums to play Over the hills and
far away O'er the hills and o'er the bay Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain King George commends in New York Bay Over the hills and far away Then the fallen lads behind the drone With colours blazing like the sun
Along the roads and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Through
Flanders, Portugal and Spain King George commends in New York Bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Through
Flanders, Portugal and Spain King George commends in New York Bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Through
Flanders, Portugal and Spain Through Flanders, Portugal and Spain King George commends in New York Bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Over the hills and o'er the bay Through
Flanders, Portugal and Spain King George commends in New York Bay King George commends in New York Bay King George commends in New York Bay King George commends in New York Bay King George commends in New York Bay King George commends in New York Bay King George commends in New York Bay King George commends in New York Bay King George commends in New York Bay And we sailed out of heaven Round the fall
is the harbor With bayonets gleaming and bright to fall Little to hold but we tried hard to cherish
of our loved ones but England's first shore Soon we're transported to hell and its fury to smoke and through fire through shiots and
flames that televera we stole both his ego in that short time we were evil of spirit and
I met with me hair black as a raven her eyes they did glister like true dance bright we spoke not a word at our baby first meeting I lay in her arms all
that long span of night and we traveled together for a mountain money she by my side she tendered
my suffering she sought me pity bore me a daughter my heart's delight and we marched into Lisbon proud Wellington's army
the war being over on the ground all on the peace side the weeping and wailing four thousand women left on that cold ground farewell farewell farewell farewell farewell and
adieu to you Spanish lady farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain farewell and adieu We've received orders to say long to me.
But I know in some time we'll return once again.
Once again.
If ever I'm returning, it's with gold and great manteed.
If I return, it's with gold and great storm.
I searched for my wife and my Spanish lady.
Who brought me some dreams.
In the midst of such war Farewell and adieu To you Spanish lady Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain.
We've received orders to say it all to you To know in some time we'll return once again Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish lady Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain
We've received orders to sail on to England But I know that sometime we'll return once again Once again Once again Once
again O'er the hills and o'er the main Flinders, Portugal, Spain King Judge commands We obey, open
heads, find ways We obey, open heads, find ways We obey, open heads, find ways We obey, open heads, find ways Thank you.
One of the myths of the American Civil War is that all the Irish immigrants of the time fought entirely on the side of the North, and that's just not true.
It's accurate to say that more Irish probably did fight on the side of the Union, but that's because the great centers of Irish immigration, which were New York, Boston, and to a lesser extent Chicago and Philadelphia and other northern cities, were all in the North.
A fewer Irish ended up in the South, but those who did almost invariably fought for their new land against the tyranny from Washington, D.C., just like many of them had fought against the British tyranny from London and Dublin Castle.
Of course, the memory of the Confederate Irish has by now mostly vanished down the memory hole of political correctness.
I know of one Hollywood movie, one only, that has even tried to portray the famous New York anti-draft riots of 1863.
The worst civil disorder in American history outside the Civil War itself.
That was when the Irish of New York fought against mobs of blacks and also against the American army, who were trying to draft the men and send them off to get blown to pieces while leaving the niggers behind to take all their jobs and mess with their women.
The Union had to pull regiments out of the line at Gettysburg and send them to New York City on trains to put down the rebellion.
And easily over a thousand people were killed, many of them niggers strung up to lampposts.
That movie is The Gangs of New York, which I highly recommend.
One of the few musicians who will even address the subject of the Confederate Irish at all is an American named David Kincaid.
This is one of the songs from the Irish Volunteer album about the famous Confederate Kelly's Brigade.
Not now for the songs of a nation's rungs, not the crumbs of starving labour.
Let the rifle ring and the bullets sing to the clash of the flashing sabre.
There are Irish ranks on the 20th night, till Colombia's guarded ocean, and an iron clank from flank to flank, till the darned men in motion.
And the frank souls there clear to and bare to, while there's the seal beside them, and love or hate with the strength of hate, till the grave of the valiant fight them.
It seems to be he made agree, whose sword's avenging glory, must light the fight and smite for right, like a brine's in lowlands holy.
*music*
Your Celtic race from their battle is charged to their shout above Apollo.
By the souls of a python and the wheels of her tears bleeding patience, the set is rough.
Shells fast to marble, braze of my reputation.
The end of the day is a very good day.
The Irish green shall again be seen as our Irish fathers poured, A burning the wind from the south behind and the Yankee grouse before it.
Oh, a mule's red hand shall burn the land, rain a fire on men and cattle, Till the Lincoln snakes in their home cold legs plunged from the blaze of battle.
For a tyrant's life, a bogey night, a union of dissolvers, the best we can are stalwart, and Columbia's wonderful.
Oh Oh, where shall I march by triumphal arm?
Oh, where may so well the slaughter?
Our drums shall roll from the capital, O Lord, that form us in.
The highest leading goes to the lord of foes for judgment, final and solemn.
Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword is Doomed Line Square and Conor.
The End
The End
On May 9, 1862, the Union Army, under the command of General Benjamin Butler, captured the city of New Orleans, which had originally prepared for defense and recruited a number of local men into militia units for that purpose, but the city fathers then decided to surrender.
Which, I suppose, is why we still have the French Quarter and most of old New Orleans intact, since the Americans were really big on torching southern cities and burning them or shelling them to the ground, as we found out in Atlanta and Charleston and Vicksburg.
However, when Ben the Beast's boys in blue started their triumphant parade into the city, it turned out that there was resistance anyway.
A company of Irish volunteers in the city militia either didn't get the order to surrender, or else they just decided to hell with it, we're not going to be allowing these arrogant blue-bellied bastards to just stroll into our town and lay down our weapons like pussies.
Anyway, this lone Irish company, about which very little is known, opened fire and fought back.
Since there seems to have been only about a hundred of them, they didn't stand much of a chance against 20,000 Americans, and they were wiped out probably rather quickly, but someone remembered their heroism enough to immortalize them with this song.
This is David Kincaid.
You Irish man and women To draw near both young and old But old for lamentation Now to you I will unfold With me to ride For the riddle To ride For the riddle
One hundred gallant Irishmen we are left for to deplore, Whose bodies fell a victim upon the Columbus shore, With me to raya, me father ilda, to raya, My father ilda tonight, oh.
It was at the siege of New Orleans upon the 9th of May, Our countrymen they suffered soar upon that fatal day, With me to raya, father ilda, to raya, My father ilda tonight, oh.
They were engaged by five to one when charged on with the steel, But her and son still loudly cry, We'll die before we'll yield, With me to raya, me father ilda, Here I arrive on a little dawn to the night home.
Music They could not stand.
Exertion proved in vain.
They strove to break the enemy's force and drive them from the plain with me too.
I fought a little daughter in battle.
But I lost their number, it was too small, and I gave them no fair play.
Not one of them did their escape upon that free to lay with me to ride off, fall the riddle down, fall the riddle down the night, oh.
To see the streets that even age, heart would rend with pain.
The human blood in rivers, land like any flood or stream, with me do-day-ah, ho-do-day-ah, ho-do-day-ah, ho-do-day-ah, ho-do-day-ah, ho-do-day-ah.
Men's heads blown off their bodies, most dismal for to see.
And wounded men did love me cry with pain on my good knee.
With me do, I are a father, I am a father, I am a father.
The settlers they did then advance and broken through the town.
They trampled and wounded men that lay up on the ground.
With me do, I are a father, I am a father, I am a father, I am a father, I am a father.
The wounded call for mercy, but none they did receive.
They numbered them among the dead and threw them in the grave.
With me do, I are a father, I am a father, I am a father, I am a father, I am a father.
One half of them were Irishmen far from their native soul.
Oh, yeah, oh, yeah, oh, yeah, oh, yeah, oh, yeah, oh, yeah, oh, yeah, oh, yeah.
Poor orphans now, they may weep and cry and hour and through the day.
They let their lovely children go on to America.
Do-ray-ah, fa-da-rida, do-ray-ah-ra, fa-da-rida, do-ray-do.
Are ye there, those dumper lines, do not neglect to toil.
and they're for a lightning road on the side path to sail.
And I think upon our country man, hold up their native shore.
Their friends may mourn for their loss, they'll never see them go.
Now to conclude with these few lines, with grief I'll say no more.
You know at once through poverty they left their native shore.
They had no one to heal their wounds, may angels them surround.
Before the throne of heaven may they wear a brilliant crown with me.
Toorayah, me falderildah, toorayah, I falderildah tonight.
Amen.
for.
Oh, oh.
This is another aspect of our history which the powers that be have tried to flush down the politically correct memory hole.
But down through the years, there have been a few courageous producers and directors who have at least touched on the subject in movies like The Outlaw Josie Wales.
There was one movie made a few years ago called Ride with the Devil, which had a lot of potential, but they had to stick in that most ridiculous of historical nonsense figures, a so-called black confederate.
And they tried to remove all racial content out of the war, and so that one flopped.
But there are a few who do remember.
Now, I think this commentary on the Confederate guerrillas came from a guy named Dave Parra, because I got it off the same album as some of his music.
They had passwords that only the initiated understood, and signals which meant everything, or nothing.
A nightbird was a messenger.
A daybird, a courier.
They knew the names or the numbers of the pursuing regiments from the shoes of their horses, and told the nationality of troops by the manner in which twigs were broken along the line of march.
They could see in the night like other beasts of prey, and hunted most when it was darkest.
No matter for a road, so only there was a trail, and no matter for a trail, so only there was a direction.
When there was no wind, and when the clouds hid the sun or the stars, they traveled by the moss on the trees.
In the daytime they looked for this moss with their eyes, and in the nighttime with their hands.
Living much in fastnesses, they were rarely surprised, while solitude developed and made more acute every instinct of self-preservation.
By degrees, a caste began to be established, free to come and go, bound by no enlistment and dependent upon no bounty, hunted by one nation and apologized for by the other, merciful rarely and merciless often,
loving liberty in a blind, idolatrous fashion, half reality, half superstition, holding no crime so bad as that of cowardice, courteous to women amid all the wild license of pillage and slaughter, steadfast as faith to comradeship or friend, too serious for boastfulness, and too near the unknown to deceive themselves with vanity.
Starved today and feasted tomorrow, victorious in this combat or decimated in that, receiving no quarter and giving none.
A sable fringe on the blood-red garments of civil war.
Or a perpetual cutthroat in ambush in the midst of contending Christians?
Is it any wonder that in time the guerrilla organization came to have captains and leaders and discipline and a language and fastnesses and hiding places and a terrible banner unknown to the winds?
And here's a song from Dave Parra and Kathy Barton about a young girl who falls in love with a handsome young Reb and runs off with him.
I wrote out one morning, see what I found.
Let's see.
I fell in love with a pretty little girl and her in love with me.
And her in love with me.
I fell in love with a pretty little girl and her in love with me.
She took me to her father.
She fooled me with her dad.
She whispered low in mother's ear.
I love the gorilla man I love the gorilla man Whisper low in mother's ear I love a gorilla man Oh, daughter, oh dear daughter Oh, can you treat me so?
Leave your dear, oh mother And with a gorilla go And with a gorilla go Leave your dear, oh mother And with a gorilla go Oh,
mother I do not like the farmer that works all in dirt.
I'd rather have a gorilla man that wears a ruffle shirt.
That wears a ruffle shirt.
I'd rather have a gorilla man that wears a ruffle shirt.
I've undle up my clothing, my true love by night's side, and I'll roam this country over and be a gorilla bride.
Be a gorilla bride, roam this country over and be a gorilla bride.
With his pockets lined with silver, a pistol in each hand, a long life and full success to the roving gorilla man.
To the roving gorilla man, long life and full success to the roving gorilla man.
I am a rolling gorilla.
From town to town.
And there I spy a pretty little girl.
With joy I do sit down.
With joy I do sit down.
From every pocketbook I spy.
With joy I slide her down.
With joy I see.
I generally try to run these end-of-the-year music shows at about two hours, maybe a little more.
Three hours is too long, not just for the American attention span, but also because a file that size might cause downloading and computer problems for people.
Anyway, I'm down to about 20 minutes, give or take, so I'll play one more historical ballad for you.
This being one of the very few folk-type songs to come out of World War II.
A war not really noted so much for its music.
This is a song written by a former soldier in a highland regiment that was involved in the campaign in Sicily in 1943.
It's called Banks of Sicily and it's sung by Macom and Clancy.
Hail well, ye banks of Sicily, Hail ye well, ye valleys and shores.
There's no Scot will mourn the loss again, All the poor soldiers are weary.
The Piper is drowsy, his pipes laid away.
He won't be around for his vino today.
The sky o 'er Messina is heavy and grey, and all the poor soldiers are weary.
Here were ye banks of Sicily, there ye wealthy valleys and shores.
There's no scot will mourn the last of you, all the poor soldiers unweary.
Their drummer is dressed up both handsome and tall, his drums and his ear are laid by the wall.
He's braced himself up for his photo and all to take with his Lola his dearie.
Then choned the pipes and sound the tenor from the area pit outside of the wall.
Then choned the pipes and sound the tenor from all the poor soldiers unweary.
Then well ye banks of Sicily, then ye well ye valleys and shores.
There's no scot will mourn the last of you, all the poor soldiers unweary.
The End Hey.
And before I forget, I know we're a little light on skinhead rock this year, but here's our annual ritual genuflection to Ian Stewart and Screwdriver, a song about the SS called Pride of a Nation.
The Flats are raised in glory Before the battle starts Time is getting tighter And the Pride is in their heart They march towards the battlefield
The enemy ahead The final fight is all my fear Is either life or death Yeah My love and leisure Freedom and salvation Out of the nation They kept the flame in the light The uniform of midnight And silver on their necks Their
honor was their loyalty
To join the eastern way They fought against such massive hogs And earth and glory in the fields But history tries to put them down For their loyalty or deal Pride of the nation Pride of the nation Pride of the nation Pride of the nation Feelings of the nation Pride of the nation They kept the flame in the light
guitar solo
Freedom of a vision Part of a nation Against the flames of light And when the end had finally come And the odds were just too great Their pride remained The quarry stayed For all was not too late The fire could be rekindled And the flames could fill the sky Like a
phoenix from the ashes A loop of the light Yeah Part of a nation Freedom of a vision Part of a nation It's a day in the light Part of a nation Freedom of a vision Part of a nation Part of a nation It's a day
in the light Part of a nation Okay, I understand that to many of you out there, my occasional preoccupation with obscure points of history seems annoying at best and indicative of advancing senility at worst.
I get it, and I'm not bothered by it.
Like so many of our kind, you people who think that are what the Jews have made you.
It will be a long time before you can break out of that mold and that mindset, and some of you never will.
Now, you were raised in the 20th and 21st centuries when the history of our people was being systematically erased from our consciousness.
And to many of you, I'm sure what I've been saying and the music that I've been playing for you here today is mostly gibberish.
No problem.
It just makes me very, very sad that so many of you, especially young men and women, have been so cruelly and viciously ripped away from your past and your racial and cultural inheritance.
The mighty and magnificent history of the white race is something that you have a right to and which the Jews have spent your entire lives denying you.
And that makes me more angry and upset than I can express here.
Now, I can't give it all back to you, upload it into your brains in one fell swoop, but I can try to get you to wrap your minds around little bits and pieces here and there, to the point where, all of a sudden, I hope you'll realize what an incredible void the kikes have left in your life.
The Jews have taken away William Wallace, John Wycliffe, and Shakespeare, and in return, they gave you Ronald McDonald and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
May they burn in hell for it.
Okay, one more bit of history and then I'll wind this up.
In 1845, Admiral Sir John Franklin left England in two ships, the Erebus and the Terror, along with 24 officers and 110 seamen of the Royal Navy, in the last major expedition out of Europe to attempt to locate the Northwest Passage through the Arctic.
About two ships got stuck in the ice somewhere north of Hudson Bay.
Some of the crew stayed with the vessels, and some left the ships in an attempt to walk civilization down in Canada and bring back help.
The ships themselves disappeared into the ice flows, although for many years afterwards, various explorers and whalers and Eskimos reported seeing them drifting through the ice in the far distance.
But they've never been found.
The men who struck out overland all died along the way.
Now, we know this because from that day to this, various mapping and whaling expeditions and nowadays oil exploration teams have found their graves, dozens of frozen and perfectly preserved bodies from 1846 and 47 buried under rock cairns, with their names scribbled on old sheets of diary paper and whatnot.
I've seen some photos of this on the internet, and I swear to God you'd think some of these 170-year-old dead men are about to sit up and speak.
They're so lifelike.
The grave of Sir John Franklin himself has never been found.
This is Pentangle.
Pentangle.
concerning Franklin And his gallant room With a hundred seamen he said
To the frozen ocean in the mouth of man To seek a passage around home Weep our semen to sometimes go Through cruel hardship We're good
Pin, Pin is the only one who never came.
The End
The End The fate of Franklin, no man may know.
The fate of Franklin, no tongue can tell.
Oh Long-lost frankly night We'll cross the land.
Ten thousand pounds would I freely give To say on earth that my friend I freely give to you.
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, 98194, or you can go to the party's website at www.northwestfront.org.
This is Harold Covington, and I'll see you next year.
Until then, Sasha Underban.
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