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  1. Forefathers

From the album The English Lament

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Words by Edmund Blunden (c1920); Music by Phil Drane

Ethnic English people are more detached from their ancestry than any other nation or ethnic group. The British Government’s appetite for conflict between 1800 and 1945 was such that millions of young Englishmen were killed and maimed on battlefields in foreign lands, with some English villages losing 95% of their young men under 25. This had a disastrous effect on English ethnic continuity, and the British Government’s enthusiasm for the over-speedy replacement of England’s breeding stock with foreign males impaired ethnic English recovery. Since 1945 British Government cultural oppression of the English has had a further debilitating effect and since 1997 the effects of New British multicultural and mass immigration policies, and the ensuing mass emigration of English people to escape them, have almost certainly guaranteed that English ethnicity will not survive another generation in England.
This song, from a poem written by Edmund Blunden in 1923 sums up his view of just how badly we ethnic English had already been detached from our English roots by the end of WWI. In fact it was a warning of things to come. Now it simply serves as a reminder that in 21st Century Britain we English have been so thoroughly


Words by Edmund Blunden (c1920); Music by Phil Drane

Here they went, with smock and crook,
Toiled in the sun, lolled in the shade,
Here they muddied out the brook
And here their hatchet cleared the glade:
Harvest-supper woke their wit,
Huntsmen's moon their wooings lit.

From this church they led their brides,
From this church themselves were led
Shoulder-high; on these waysides
Sat to take their beer and bread.
Names are gone - what men they were
These their cottages declare.

Names are vanished, save the few
In the old brown Bible scrawled;
These were men of pith and hue,
Whom the city never called;
Scarce could read or hold a quill,
Built the barn, the forge, the mill.

On the green they watched their sons
Playing till too dark to see,
As their fathers watched them once,
As my father once watched me;
While the bat and beetle flew
On the warm air webbed with dew.

Unrecorded, unrenowned,
Men from whom my ways begin,
Here I know you by your ground
But I know you not within -
There is silence, there survives
Not a moment of your lives.

© PhilDrane Music 2016