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Dec. 31, 2015 - Radio Free Nortwest - H.A. Covington
01:50:38
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Oh, then tell me, Sean O 'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so.
Hush, a wiggle, 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, rifle known to you and me.
One more roar for signal, token whistle of the marching tune.
For your bike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon.
By the rising of the moon.
By the rising of the moon.
Which applies upon your shoulder By the rising of the moon Out from many a mud-walled Cabern eyes were watching Through the night Many a man Thank you.
Outro Music Greetings from the Northwest Homeland, comrades.
It's New Year's Eve, December the 31st, 2015.
I'm Harold Covington, and this is Radio Free Northwest.
I started this podcast in January of 2010, and somewhat to my astonishment, next month it will be the beginning of the seventh year of Radio Free Northwest.
This will therefore be the sixth end-of-the-year broadcast, and insofar as anything only six years old can be said to have traditions, a tradition is developed that in the last Radio Free Northwest show of every year, I always do a roughly two-hour 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.
Now 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 most of which you already know or agree with anyway.
Like everyone else in the movement, I do a lot of preaching to the choir.
It reminds me of the meetings of the old John Burt Society, where after the tea and cookies, the chapter later would set up a boombox on a table.
And all the little old men and blue-haired ladies would listen like mesmerized zombies to Robert Welsh on a cassette tape, bloviating on and on and on in this droning voice about how communism and insiders and mettoids and bizarre world conspiracies, including everybody on the earth, but the Jews, of course, were about to destroy America.
Now, I don't want these podcasts to turn into that.
You guys need a break from the sound of my voice.
We don't have ads from our sponsors, and so I use music.
But there's one more important reason that I play music on here, especially the music I choose to play.
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 usually there's a reason why I choose to play a certain specific cut.
As trite and cliche as this sounds, a people's music is the soul of that people revealed for all of us to hear.
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, they're all jumping and jiving back in the jungle while some coon beats on Hololog.
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's 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 used to think that's the oldest written musical tablature that can be identified and understood by today's paleographers and historians, but I since learned that historians and scholars have actually figured out, at least to some degree, how the ancient Greeks and Romans wrote music down, and I've even replayed one of those ancient musical pieces that has been performed by modern musicians on here, the Sekilos Song, in two versions.
Next year, I'm going to see if I can dig up some more really old stuff to play for you guys.
I believe some modern-day musicians are experimenting with reproducing Roman music now.
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.
Now, you'd be amazed how many people's musical world begins with 1960s golden oldies from their childhood and ends with Supertramp or Taylor Swift or Miley Cyrus.
Even people who are starting to experience racial awakening.
I mean, where the hell are they going to hear any actual uncontaminated white music?
That's one function that Radio Northwest serves.
In the past years, 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.
Naturally, a lot of these songs are 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.
Unlike all entertainers, these guys very quickly learned that the way to get a good fat goose in a 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.
Okay, let's start with blood and guts.
Now, I know white boys are a bunch of cowardly weaklings today.
Even when we do resist, it's not Ragnar Lothbrok the Viking Chief, it's something like that skinny, sunken-chested Dillon Roof having a hysterical hissy fit with a gun, and then afterwards getting in his car and driving aimlessly until he surrenders like a little lamb to the first highway patrolman who pulls him over.
Mighty white warriors we ain't, even on the rare occasions when we do manage to inflict a little damage on the enemy.
But it was not always so.
In view of the fact that so many white people today are so weak and timid and confused and frightened, and they're apparently just lying down in front of the Third World invasion and hoping they don't get stepped on in the brown rush across the borders of Europe and America, it may surprise us to realize that at one point white men were the greatest warriors and soldiers in human history.
Guys who could conquer the red man's greatest empire with 700 men and 17 horses.
True fact.
And for many millennia, our music reflected our love of battle and how we reveled in victory and courage.
Now, when it comes to Aryan battle songs or military music, just the songs I've played on here before, I just had so much to pick from that I gave up and I literally just pulled a few names out of a hat because otherwise this episode would be nothing but marches and war songs.
With extreme reluctance, I decided to restrict this segment to six numbers again so there would be room for other music on the show.
I will start out with two songs from one of the greatest of our fighting nations, the Scots.
We'll be hearing the Battle of Harlaw from the late Corrie brothers and Ulster singer Andy Irvin with a ballet called Hawes of Cromdale, which I don't believe I've played on here before.
Then we'll hear the Agincourt carol, a real golden oldie that was top of the pops back in 1415.
That's about the Battle of Agincourt, October 25th, 1415, which is the origin of the English people's deep-rooted superiority complex to this day.
Then we have an old seafaring song from the American Revolution by Canada's greatest folk singer, Stan Rogers, called Barrett's Volunteers.
Next up is Johnny Horton with an old number I remember listening to on 45 RPM as a child on my little toy record player.
Remember the little yellow spindles you'd put in the big hole in the center of the 45 to make it fit on the stud of those things?
Of course you don't.
Anyway, as a kid, I listened to a lot of Johnny Horton, and this is The Ballad of the Alamo.
And of course, no selection of battle anthems would be complete without an Irish rebel song, so we've got Derek Warfield with the 3rd West Cork Brigade.
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 ten thousand of his fighting men, descended on Dingwall and Inverness to lay claim to the lands of Ross.
And come ye frae the Helands, man, come ye a'er the way, saw ye Macdonald and Oz men as they come in frae sky away.
And come ye near or near enough, did ye their numbers see?
Come tell to me, John Heelan, man, what might their numbers be?
Wee a'er the way, a'er the way, a'er the way, a'er the way, a'er the way, a'er the way, a'er the way, a'er the way, a'er the way.
While I come in by the Gary Land, doon by Nether Haw, I saw Macdonald and Oz men as they come in frae sky away.
Wee a Durham, a do, a do, a tree, a drum, a Durham, a Do, Drum, Tray The healing men with their long sords filling at us, foose air And they drive back where lolling men, three acres bred for mare Wee a Durham, a do, a tree, a drum, Durham, a Drew, Drum, Tray Lord for this day to his brother to say, oh brother, didn't he you see They've driven us back an anchor site and we'll be forced to flee Wee a Durham, a do, a tree, a drum, a Do, Drum, a Do, Drum, Tray Oh no, no,
no, my brother dear, this thing it might be You'll tack your good sod in your hand and you'll gun in with me Wee a Durham, a do, a do, a tree, a drum, a Do, Drum, Drum, Tray The first blow that Lord for this struck, the sword ran in and held The second
blow, Lord for this struck, the great MacDonald fell away A Durham, a do, a tree, a drum, a Do, Drum, Drum, Tray Stick a cry free among the healing men when you see their leader fall They cutted him and buried him along by fair harlow Wee a Durham, a do, a tree, a drum, a Do, a Drum, Drum, Tray Wee a Durham, a do, a Do, a tree, a Drum, Drum,
Tray I'll see you next
time.
Thank you.
We won't let some referee When the English host upon his camp, a bloody battle then began upon the hawks of Cromdale.
The English horse they were so rude, they paid their hooves in healing blood.
But our brave plants above, they stood upon the hawks of Cromdale.
Alas we could no longer stay in all the hills we come away.
Sir, we did lament the day that air will come to Cromdale.
Thus the great men throws to say, healing men show me the way.
And I will over the hills this day, and I'll view the hearts of Cromdale.
Oh, but thus my lord, you're not so strong, you're scarcely half two thousand men.
There's twenty thousand on the plain, stand rank and file in Cromdale.
Thus the great men throws to say, healing men show me the way.
And I will over the hills this day, and I'll view the hearts of Cromdale.
They were a bitter, a plain man, when the great men throws upon them camp.
A second battle then began upon the hawks of Cromdale.
The grand McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie, and the true's made in spite.
And the fuck was valiantly upon the hawks of Cromdale.
The McDonald's day and the tom's tickets, the caverns that are stand or joined.
The grand McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie.
The grand McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie and McKenzie.
The Cuffles Ball like Loyal Souls upon the Hawks of Crumb Dale.
Clares, Macoodles and MacNeil, so bold ladies, they do the fields.
Led their enemies to yield upon the Hawks of Crumb Dale.
The Garnets from the Evely Phants.
The Praises from the Sound of Glass.
The Graves made their heats to dance upon the Hawks of Crumb Dale.
The Loyal Skewards, Wayman, Troes aboard, they set upon the foes.
Played them for a killing blow, and laid them for one's of Crumb Dale.
Of twenty-five is the farm well spent by Fundus, let the Abadine.
Rest of them lie on the plain, there on the Hawks of Crumb Dale.
The Garnets from the Sound of Glass.
Oh, the year was 1776.
1778.
How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now.
A letter of mark came from the king to the scummiest vessel I've ever seen.
God damn them all.
I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold.
We'd fire no guns, shed no tears.
Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, the last of Barrett's privateers.
Oh, well, Sid Barrett cried the town.
How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now For twenty brave men, all fishermen Who would make for him the antelopes crew God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier The last of Barrett's privateer The Antelope Sloop was a sickening sight.
I wish I was in Sherbrooke now.
To the port and her sails in rags and the cook in the scuppers with the staggers and jags.
God damn them all!
I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold.
We'd fire no guns, shed no tears.
Now I'm a broken man on the Halifax Pier, the last of Barrett's privateers.
On the king's birthday we put to sea how shy I was in Sherbrooke now.
We were 91 days to Montego Bay, pumping like madmen all the way.
God damn them all.
I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold.
We'd fire no guns, shed no tears.
Now I'm a broken man on the Halifax Pier, the last of Barrett's privateers.
On the 96th day we sailed again, I wish I was in Sherbrooke now.
When a bloody great Yankee hove in sight with our cracked four-pounders we made I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold.
We'd fire no guns, shed no tears.
Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, the last of Barrett's brava tears.
The Yankee lay low down with gold.
I wish I was in Sherbrooke now.
She was broad and fat and loose in stays, but to catch her took the antelope two whole days.
Goddamn them all.
I was told we'd cruise the sea.
We'd fire no guns, shed no tears.
Now I'm a broken man on Alipax pier, the last of Barrett's privateers.
Then at length we stood two cables away.
I wish I was in Sherbrooke now.
Heart-cracked, four-pounders made an awful din, but with one fat ball, he ain't stole us in.
Goddamn them all.
I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold.
We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier The last of Barrett's privateer The Antelope shook and pitched on her side.
I wish I was in Sherbrooke now.
Barrett was smashed like a bowl of eggs and the main truck carried off both men eggs.
God damn them all!
I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold.
We'd fire no guns, shed no tears.
The End Shed no tears.
Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier.
The last of Barrett's varieties.
Captain Dickinson, Jim Bowie, present and accounted for.
Back in 1836, Houston said to Travis, get some volunteers and go, and fortify 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.
Said 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 blew recall on the fatal third time.
Santa Ana breached the wall and he killed them one and all.
Now the bugles are silent and there's rust on each sword.
And this small band of soldiers Lie asleep in the arms of the Lord
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 ours To
the thirteen days of glory at the siege of our One
of the most popular things we got into on Radio Free Northwest during the year 2015 was the evil karaoke, as I called it, i.e.
modern rock-type songs with politically incorrect meanings interpolated in a satirical manner.
I will say again that I am very impressed with the quality of the work here, whoever is doing it.
I'm also beginning to see some of the first really professional-looking 3D animation on YouTube in racial contexts.
Slowly...
Slowly, we are learning and catching up.
Now, a lot of this stuff comes from a group calling itself Morakiu, which seems to be comprised of maybe four guys and three girls, but I really don't know who is doing most of it.
It usually pops up on YouTube under an assortment of pseudonyms, and in view of what can happen to anybody these days uttering any political incorrectness at all, even so much by a single tweet, well, I totally get that.
I am somewhat hampered in my appreciation as well by the fact that a lot of this music is so far after my time that I totally missed the point because I never heard the originals.
But I'm told by some of our younger listeners that they get it and it's pretty cute.
So I'm just going to play you four of my favorite evil karaoke's from 2015.
Most likely these are for more Q.
I know you're burning coal I know you're burning coal You're trying to prove something to society You're banging every nigga bug that you see You're dripping with every single STD The coon on your arm has 50 felonies I said I I know you're burning
I know you're burning cold I know you're burning cold I know you're burning cold When I
first met you, girl, you had daddy issues Now you're walking around cracked out and abused You've had six nigglets, now your buck has dumped you A white neck wouldn't touch you and I know that it's true
I know you're burning cold I know you're burning cold I know you're burning cold I know you're burning cold I know you're
burning cold I know you're burning cold I know you're burning cold
I know you're burning coal Hamid's got a quick hand He's moping in his room in the occupied land He's got a roll of
dynamite Hanging out his mouth He's a Saracen Yeah, he found a cache of AKs That Hamas hid in his school With a rocket launcher He can't even aim them But he's coming for you
Yeah, he's coming for you All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better run, better run Faster than my rocket All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better
run, better run Faster than my rocket All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better run, better run Outrun my gun All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better run, better run Faster than my rocket Shlomo works a long day Shlomo works a long day Multicultural stays Multicultural stays In the white man's hate And he's bringing me a dark surprise Cause Dindu's
in my country And he's black as night I raise my hand and sing Heil Join the KKK Join the KKK And five different militias Stock up on poison gas And say race war now Like your zyklon
bin, yeah All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better run, better run Outrun my gun All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better run, better run Faster than my oven All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better
run, better run Faster than my oven All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better run, better run Outrun my gun All the other yids with the cut-off dicks You better run, better run Faster than my oven You better run, better run, faster than my oven Oi-oi being Oi-oi masala Oink-oing Bella Oi-oing Faye
wurde von aller harvesting *Musik* You better run, better run, outrun my gun, all the other yids with the cut up dicks.
You better run, better run, faster than my rocket.
All the other yids with the cutoff dicks.
You better run, better run, outrun my gun.
All the other yids with the cutoff dicks.
You better run, better run, faster than my oven.
All the other yids with the cutoff dicks.
You better run, better run, outrun my gun.
All the other yids with the cutoff dicks.
You better run, better run, faster than my rocket.
All the other yids with the cutoff dicks.
You better run, better run, outrun my gun.
All the other yids with the cutoff dicks.
You better run, better run, faster than my oven.
Much shock Madonna, nigglets at your feet.
Wonder how you keep your monkeys off the street.
Who gives you treatments for your STDs?
While your little monkeys are in the trees.
Friday night, the nigglets steal a suitcase.
Sunday morning, they're out raping nuns.
Monday's cool and bald in a police chase.
See how they run.
Much shock Madonna, nigglet on your lap.
One knows if your coochie is a naked trap.
Wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah.
See how they run.
Much shock Madonna, passed out on the bed.
Listening to the nigger music in your head.
Tuesday afternoon, the coochie's a cheering thing.
Wednesday morning, riots in the slums.
Firstly that the oldest one is pimping.
See how they ride.
Much sharp Madonna, Neglects at your feet.
Wonder how you keep your monkeys off the street.
The first one is a black man.
The first one is black man.
Purple drain in my monkey brain.
Poor niggers always get the blame.
Hate and whited but I don't know why.
Excuse me while I shoot this guy.
Guns are blazing all around.
Top shooting Abby cause Abby's brown.
I blame it all on slavery.
When I go to prison, they gonna muddick me.
That's me.
Oh no, no, no.
Go, go, go!
Go, go, go!
Go, go, go!
Go, go, go!
Go, go, go!
Go, go, go!
Thank you.
I'm sorry.
Just one more.
I can't resist.
I can't resist.
I was driving around in old Mexico.
I got lost.
I didn't know which way to go.
I was confused.
It was late and I was in a fog.
I ran over the Taco Bell door.
I felt that smush and I said, oh mama.
No rider crushed that little chihuahua.
I prayed for forgiveness in a synagogue.
I ran over the Taco Bell dog.
If I am caught, they will put me in a cell with 20 locks.
Unless I can pin it on Jack in the box.
I'll be whipped, then beaten, and then I'll be flogged.
I ran over the Taco Bell dog.
His last words were "Yokiero el medico".
I flattened that pup to hell I will go.
I should have skipped driving and gone for a jog.
I ran over the Taco Bell dog.
I ran over the Taco Bell dog.
Okay, I think what we're going to do now is go from the ridiculous to the sublime.
A while back, I found a version of a very old and fine Irish independence ballad called The Foggy Dew.
I've played several versions of it on here before, notably the one by Patty Riley.
It's actually one of the most famous of all Irish rebel songs.
But this one is sung entirely in Irish, which is something I'd never heard before.
This is a very good rendition.
It's by a very fine young Irish singer called Grunge.
And I think I want to drop this in just as a kind of...
Easy listening, if you want to call it that.
And I think I'll follow it up with another easy listening piece.
I mentioned before that 2,000-year-old ancient Greek melody Sykylos' song.
I've explained all that on previous podcasts.
This is a version by a lady named Laurie Papajohn and her group.
It's not so much an actual authentic rendition, or as close to authentic as the musicians can make it.
It's more of a kind of a new-agey...
Laid-back version of this song, which sometimes it's hard to remember when you're listening to it, is over 2,000 years old, and quite possibly the oldest piece of continuous music that we have available to us so far until the archaeologists can figure out more ancient Greek and Roman musical tablature.
Anyway, here's our easy listening section of the podcast.
Gráinne Holland with Foggy Dew, and Laurie Papajohn with Sekilos'Song.
Kousi sa oglando e mask na
gran, Keejeeam kha-ha-urri-víin ho-ak, Lí na sva cha-cha-chang-phanam-mín-chalang, A-cha-ta-aní-skan-ru-ak, Ní
rô-k-rón-aní-na-as-bêl-pí, Na dró-mi-a-tóg-a-r-glo-a, A-cha-n-klo-g-o-bén-na-kher-fa-cha-vén,
Riven-a-ng-g-sad-r-g-a-u-kjá,行�� come you you
you you you you you you you you you I'll see
you soon.
I got you gone inside, you go.
I got you gone inside, you go.
I got you gone inside, you go.
I got you gone inside, you go.
And I'll give you a little bit of joy.
I'll give you a little bit of pain.
I'll give you a little bit of joy.
I'll give you a little bit of joy.
I'll give you a little bit of joy.
I'll give you a little bit of joy.
We've had evil karaoke and easy listening, so what next?
What next?
How about inspirational?
You know, periodically I joke about how I think some of you expect to see me leap up on a big picnic table in a public park somewhere and give a rousing oration to a big crowd, and then all of a sudden we're marching on the statehouse in Olympia with pitchforks and torches.
Unfortunately, that's not how things are done these days, at least not in America.
Although the people of Romania came close back in 1989 when they dragged Nicolae Ceausescu and his Jewish hag of a wife out of their palace and shot them.
But 200 years before that, something like that did happen.
On July 14, 1789, in Paris, a young man named Camille de Moulin jumped up on a table in a sidewalk cafe and delivered just such a speech, inciting a mob to storm the Bastille.
And when the garrison commander ordered his men to fire on the people, the soldiers refused and turned their muskets and bayonets on their own officers.
Now, I've said it before, and it's something you need to internalize.
That is when a revolution truly begins, when the police and the military, who have been paid money to use force to keep the dictatorship in power, suddenly, for whatever reason, decide to change sides and no longer obey orders.
When those direct deposits stop sliding into the bank accounts of the police and the military, as will inevitably happen one day, Possibly sooner than we think.
Then that's going to be our window of opportunity.
Maybe then we can set up our own guillotine in Lafayette Park.
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes mugir ces féroces soldats?
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras égorger nos fils, nos compagnes.
Aux armes citoyens, formez vos bataillons.
Marchant, marchant, qu'un sang impur, un vrai persillon.
Aux armes citoyens, formez vos bataillons.
Marchant, marchant, qu'un sang impur, un vrai persillon.
Marchant, marchant, qu'un sang impur.
C'est grand galime, grand galime, On est souvent que des concours.
Et parier ces tristes victimes, Arrégé seulement contre vous.
Arrégé seulement contre vous.
Mais c'est des potes sanguineres, Et ces complices brouillées.
Tous ces tigres, les envitiés, Les girs de sauf mer.
Aux armes citoyens, formez vos bataillons.
Marchant, marchant, qu'un sang impur, un vrai persillon.
Aux armes citoyens, formez vos bataillons.
Marchant, marchant, qu'un sang impur, un vrai persillon.
Amour sacré de la patrie, conduit, soutient, Ombre avangeur.
Liberté, liberté chérie, qu'on vaut avec les défenseurs.
Combazes avec tes défenseurs.
Sous nos drapons, que la victoire accourra tellement nos accents, Que tes ennemis expirons, Moitons triomphes et notre gloire.
Aux armes citoyens, formez vos bataillons.
Marchant, marchant, qu'un sang impur, un vrai persillon.
Que tes ennemis expirons, que les ennemis expirons, Que tes ennemis expirons, que les ennemis expirons, Que tes ennemis expirons, que les ennemis expirons, Que tes ennemis expirons, que les ennemis expirons, Que tes ennemis expirons, que les ennemis expirons, Que tes ennemis expirons, que les ennemis expirons, Que tes ennemis expirons, que les ennemis expirons, Que tes ennemis expirons, que les ennemis expirons, See you.
Twice during the 20th century, the entire German nation was butchered on the altar of Zion.
Now in 2016, the Muslim hordes are coming to finish the job.
One always hopes that at the last minute, the German people will rouse themselves for one final effort to fight off the invaders from the East against whom they have guarded the Western world for so long.
Although right now I have to say I'm not too sanguine about the chance of that happening.
This is a song from the Napoleonic Wars.
Ichatan kameraden, which became sort of the official funeral dirge played at the burial of fallen German soldiers.
It has been heard entirely too often for the last 101 years.
The End
The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End
The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End The End
CHOIR SINGS
you you you This is a Welsh chorale from a Celtic music festival in Lorient, France about, what, 30 years ago?
Before France was overrun with Muslims and Africans trying to storm the Channel and get into Britain, when Europeans were still allowed to have cultural festivals celebrating their heritage without being accused of racist microaggression or whatever.
It's a song of the life and struggle of Britain's mythical King Arthur, one of those dead European white males whose legend we're not allowed to remember anymore.
The End
Okay, what next?
Tell you what, for the rest of the show, I think I'm just going to play some of the songs that I like.
I'm the host, and I get to do that.
I like murder ballads.
They satisfy my innate lust for scandal and sleaze.
And down through history, they demonstrate that's not just an American thing.
The Germans call it schadenfreude.
So, here's a few of my favorites.
Here we go.
was a king and a very great king.
And the king, oh, mark of fame He had a lovely doctor, dear Lady Dicey was her name And what's going up and what's going to do?
And what's going to do the king?
Lady Dicey, she can drink from the boot And to whom they turn our ten When bells were rung, and mass was sung, and a barb can't see the press.
The king's going to tell he did eyes his power, and he was near a welcome guest.
He stood the cotton round the blue, and there he sat down.
He tell me, lady, lady, he said, what can you say, room?
He said, day of law, day of law, thought of a pattern, oh, I did be.
He tell me, lady, lady, he said, and I prayed eternally.
Oh, it's no tale, Lord, and it's no tale, Ned, not the only parody.
But Ted's the roger, the kitchen boy, while God's the eye to me.
He's caught his merry-men hood by one, by one, by twelve, by three.
And last came Roger, the kitchen boy, and he's dashed him to a tree.
And he's done out that bonnie boy's hair, better than a cup of gold.
He sends her to lady, die, he's in power, because she's been safe for.
Farewell, father, farewell, mother, farewell to comfort and joy.
He died for me, I'll die for him, though he was but a kitchen boy.
Farewell, mother, farewell, father.
Where will my brother speak?
He died for me, I'll die for you.
Oh, the wind and rain.
He plucked 30 strands of her long yellow hair, cried, Oh, the dreadful wind and rain.
Yes, it ain't a boy, green, yeah, n 'gash, n 'ay n 'barn.
Oh, the wind and rain.
Then he made a fiddled ball of her long yellow hair.
She had been here and she was scared of me.
I've been saying you can't be here, how hard I can do.
Oh, the wind and rain.
And he made fiddle pegs of her long finger bones.
She had been here and she was scared of me.
And she made a little fiddle of her own best bone.
Oh, and she was scared of me.
So when you melt a heart of stone, she'd hear you can do this good with me.
And she was scared of me.
Listen to the force that he can get my house on me.
Oh, and this is again.
Only tune that the fiddle would play was all the dreadful wind.
She had been here and this is good with me.
Oh, and this is good with me.
Take me down to that river bottom, boys.
Let me loaf around and take my time.
Let me look at that place where I last saw her face.
Let me sit down and think about my crime, boys.
What I done to that pretty gal of mine.
Well, that sheriff's coming, I don't care.
His bloodhound is sucking up the air.
They're coming after a while to make me walk that last mile.
And I ain't gonna cry.
guitar solo Gonna smile, cause it made me feel so good to see her die.
Take me down to that river bottom, boys, let me walk along that shady river lane.
Let me stand once again where she took a hundred men, where I first felt the squeeze of her chain.
Boys used to laugh at me when I was in pain Oh that holy angel and her dream With that big ugly devil beneath her skin She was shy, she was
bold, sweet warm I've been told Now her hot body flows in the cold And her gold slips among the sugar cane Last night I dreamed I was there Looking down at her face pale and
fair With the red eyes and blue gills Swimming and weeping All through her long streaming hair Take me down that river bottom Boys let me loaf around and take my ease
to know I put an end to that disease Just to know I put an end to that disease We're
You just set beside me and tell me you're mine Well, my mind is to marry and never to part My mind is to marry and never to part The first time I saw
you, you wounded my heart Well, Polly, pretty Polly, come here Come and go along with me.
I'll be pretty folly.
Come and go along with me.
Before we get married, some pleasure will see.
Well, he led her over mountains and valleys so deep.
Led her over mountains and valleys so deep.
Carly mistrusted and then began to weep Said Willie, little Willie, I'm afraid of your ways Willie, little Willie, I'm afraid of your ways The way you've been rambling and lead me astray Pretty
Polly, pretty Polly here Guess she's about right Polly, pretty Polly Your guess is about right That dug on your grave The biggest heart of last night Then he let her little father And what did she spy?
Let her little father And what did she spy?
A new dove grave With a spade lying by Then she
Kneeled down before him and pleading for her life She knelt Down before
him, pleading for her life And let her be a single girl if I can't be your wife Well, Polly, pretty Polly, that never can be
Polly, pretty Polly, that never can be Your past reputation's been troubled What
did he say?
He went to jailhouse and what did he say?
He killed pretty Pauly and tried to get away.
He killed pretty Pauly and tried to get away.
As I'm walking behind this plow, I keep turning over memories, buried treasure of a past once filled with you.
This old ground, I know it's mine, and I've worked it so many times.
And the rain it's been praying for is falling from my eyes, waiting for the setting sun.
When a hard day's work is done We'd sit down and rock the baby Playing our dreams But you turned it all around with this other man you found and you never thought I'd figure out your scheme.
And there's buried treasure Hidden in the ground Precious memory Of a love that lived and died You couldn't be the sample wife You had to leave the cheating life And you led me down a road I hate
to ride Now the neighbors, they all knew
They had seen him leave with you But what they didn't see Was I followed close behind And the next day's paper read That a man had been found there And the lady he'd been seeing They can't find And
we started off there with the Tannehill Weavers, Lady Dicey.
Then Julie Fowless with her bilingual version of one of the oldest surviving British ballads, The Cruel Sister.
Then came the Country Gentleman with River Bottom.
Ralph Stanley and Patty Loveless did pretty poly for us.
And Kenny Rogers closed out with Buried Treasure.
Okay, I'm going to close with two longer and more highbrow selections for you guys.
Two of the most magnificent pieces of music I know of.
When we think of opera, we usually think either of Wagner or assorted Italians, but there is such a thing as Russian opera.
This first piece I'll play for you is the Soldier's Chorus from the opera The Decembrists by Yuri Sheporin.
After that, you'll hear the first movement of the Relief of Dairy Symphony by Sean Davy, which is a kind of operatic retelling of the siege of the Protestant city of Londonderry.
by the Jacobite army of King James II in 1689.
I was going to play it on a July 12th Orange episode, but it was a bit too long for a regular show.
It's long, but I think it's worth it.
It's long, but I think it's worth it.
It's long, but I think it's worth it.
It's long, but I think it's worth it.
It's long, but I think it's worth it.
Thank you.
Well, our time's up for this week's edition of Radio Free Northwest, and I hope you've enjoyed all the music.
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, Sarsha Underbotton.
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