Jew Admits: Ritual Murder of White Christian Children IS REAL
Posted by alex in jewish ritual murder at 7:28 am | 
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All this talk about the Jewish Professor admitting ritual murder did exist
suggests it’s time for a song:
LITTLE SIR HUGH
Traditional
Four and twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba’,
And by it came him, sweet Sir Hugh,
And he played o’er them a’.
He kick’d the ba’ with his right foot,
And catch’d it wi’ his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew’s window
He gard the bonny ba’ flee.
He’s doen him to the Jew’s castell,
And walk’d it round about;
And there he saw the Jew’s daughter,
At the window looking out.
“Throw down the ba’, ye Jew’s daughter,
Throw down the ba’ to me!”
“Never a bit,” says the Jew’s daughter,
“Till up to me come ye”‘
“How will I come up? How can I come up?
How can I come to thee?
For as ye did to my auld father,
The same ye’ll do to me”‘
She’s gane till her father’s garden,
And pu’d an apple red and green;
‘Tw-as a’ to wyle him, sweet Sir Hugh,
And to entice him in.
She’s led him in through ae dark door,
And sae has she thro’ nine;
She’s laid him on a dressing-table,
And stickit him like a swine.
And first came out the thick, thick blood,
And syne came out the thin;
And syne came out the bonny heart’s blood;
There was nae mair within.
She’s row’d him in a cake o’lead,
Bade him lie still and sleep;
She’s thrown him in Our Lady’s draw-well
Was fifty fathom deep.
When the bells were rung, and mass was sung
And a’ the bairns came hame,
When every lady gat hame her son,
The Lady Maisry gat nane.
She’s ta’en her mantle her about,
Her coffer by the hand,
And she’s gane out to seek her son,
And wander’d o’er the land.
She’s doen her to the Jew’s castell,
Where a’ were fast asleep:
“Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.”
She’s doen her to the Jew’s garden,
Thought he had been gathering fruit:
“Gin ye be there, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.”
She near’d Our Lady’s deep draw-well,
Was fifty fathom deep:
“Whare’er ye be, my sweet Sir Hugh,
I pray you to me speak.”
“Gae hame, gae hame, my mither dear,
Prepare my winding sheet,
And at the back o’ merry Lincoln
The morn I will you meet.”
Now Lady Maisry is gane hame,
Made him a winding sheet,
And at the back o’merry Lincoln
The dead corpse did her meet.”
And a’ the bells o’ merry Lincoln –
Without men’s hands were rung;
And a’ the books o’ merry Lincoln
Were read without man’s tongue;
And ne’er was such a burial
Sin Adam’s days begun.
———————————
The Steeleye Span folk-rock version follows, from their 1975 album,
“Commoner’s Crown”:
LITTLE SIR HUGH
Trad. Arr. Hart/Prior/Kemp/Knight/Johnson
“Commoner’s Crown” album, 1975
Chorus:
Mother mother make my bed
Make for me a winding sheet
Wrap me up in a cloak of gold
See if I can sleep
Four and twenty bonny bonny boys playing at the hall
Along came little Sir Hugh, he played with them all
He kicked the ball very high, he kicked the ball so low,
He kicked it over a castle wall where no one dared to go
Out came a lady gay, she was dressed in green
“Come in, come in little Sir Hugh, fetch your ball again”
“I won’t come in, I can’t come in without my play mates all
For if I should I know you would cause my blood to fall”
Chorus
She took him by the milk white hand, led him to the hall
Till they came to a stone chamber where no one could hear him call
She sat him on a golden chair, she gave him sugar sweet
She lay him on a dressing board and stabbed him like a sheep
Out came the thick thick blood, out came the thin
Out came the bonny heart’s blood till there was none within
She took him by the yellow hair and also by the feet
She threw him in the old draw well fifty fathoms deep
21 February, 2007 at 8:37 am
Here’s another, some-what older ‘song’….set to ‘verse’…..Chaucer’s verse: from: ‘The Cantebury Tales’….this is ‘the prioress’ tale’….
Ther was in Asye, in a greet citee,
Amonges Cristene folk, a Jewerye,
Sustened by a lord of that contree
For foule usure and lucre of vileynye,
Hateful to Crist and to his compaignye,
And thurgh this strete men myghte ride or wende,
For it was free and open at eyther ende.
(‘the powers that be’ cozen & protect the kikes so that they can continue their genocide against the White Race…same ol’ same ol’….WTF has changed in 1000yrs?)
A litel scole of cristen folk ther stood
Doun at the ferther ende, in which ther were
Children an heep, ycomen of Cristen blood,
That lerned in that scole yeer by yeer
Swich manere doctrine as men used there,
This is to seyn, to syngen and to rede,
As smale children doon in hir childhede.
(a small school for white, christian children)
……………………..
(i snipped a bit from the original ‘tale’ here!)
……………………….
This litel child, his litel book lernynge,
As he sat in the scole at his prymer,
He Alma redemptoris herde synge
As children lerned hir anthiphoner;
And as he dorste, he drough hym ner and ner,
And herkned ay the wordes and the noote,
Til he the firste vers koude al by rote.
Noght wiste he what this Latyn was to seye,
For he so yong and tendre was of age,
But on a day his felawe gan he preye
T’expounden hym this song in his langage,
Or telle hym why this song was in usage;
This preyde he hym to construe and declare
Ful often tyme upon hise knowes bare.
(a young white boy learns some Latin hymns)
His felawe, which that elder was than he,
Answerde hym thus, “This song, I have herd seye,
Was maked of oure blisful Lady free,
Hir to salue, and eek hir for to preye
To been our help, and socour whan we deye.
I kan namoore expounde in this mateere,
I lerne song, I kan but smal grammere.”
“And is this song maked in reverence
Of Cristes mooder?” seyde this innocent.
“Now, certes, I wol do my diligence
To konne it al, er Cristemasse is went;
Though that I for my prymer shal be shent
And shal be beten thries in an houre,
I wol it konne, oure lady for to honoure.”
(the hymn was apparently written abt the cruxifixion…or:
the murder of Christ by the kikes!)
His felawe taughte hym homward prively
Fro day to day, til he koude it by rote;
And thanne he song it wel and boldely
Fro word to word acordynge with the note.
Twies a day it passed thurgh his throte,
To scoleward, and homward whan he wente;
On Cristes mooder set was his entente.
(the young white boy memorises the hymn)
As I have seyd, thurghout the Juerie
This litel child, as he cam to and fro,
Ful murily than wolde he synge and crie
“O Alma redemptoris” evere-mo.
The swetnesse hath his herte perced so
Of Cristes mooder, that to hir to preye
He kan nat stynte of syngyng by the weye.
(the young white boy sings the hymn where-ever he goes)
Oure firste foo, the serpent Sathanas,
That hath in Jewes herte his waspes nest,
Up swal, and seyde, “O Hebrayk peple, allas,
Is this to yow a thyng that is honest,
That swich a boy shal walken as hym lest
In youre despit, and synge of swich sentence,
Which is agayn oure lawes reverence?”
(the jews hear the boy singing!….the ‘devil’ is blamed…but: is he a player in this tragedy?…..with jews: u don’t need a devil!)
Fro’ thennes forth the Jewes han conspired
This innocent out of this world to chace.
An homycide therto han they hyred
That in an aleye hadde a privee place;
And as the child gan forby for to pace,
This cursed Jew hym hente and heeld hym faste,
And kitte his throte, and in a pit hym caste
(the filthy dirty kikes plan to murder the young white boy!…waiting till he passes again, they grab him, cut his throat & chuck him in a ditch….typical jews!…the same: yesterday, to-day & for-ever!)
I seye that in a wardrobe they hym threwe,
Where as this Jewes purgen hire entraille.
O cursed folk of Herodes al newe,
What may youre yvel entente yow availle?
Mordre wol out, certeyn, it wol nat faille,
And namely ther thonour of God shal sprede,
The blood out crieth on youre cursed dede.
(the jews throw the boy into a ward-robe; convinced that he is dead: after cutting his throat?!…?…not sure abt this bit…perhaps meant to say that they thought the body might be discovered?)
O martir, sowded to virginitee,
Now maystow syngen, folwynge evere in oon
The white lamb celestial -quod she-
Of which the grete evaungelist Seint John
In Pathmos wroot, which seith that they that goon
Biforn this lamb and synge a song al newe,
That never, fleshly, wommen they ne knewe.
This poure wydwe awaiteth al that nyght
After hir litel child, but he cam noght;
For which, as soone as it was dayes light,
With face pale of drede and bisy thoght,
She hath at scole and elleswhere hym soght,
Til finally she gan so fer espie,
That he last seyn was in the Jewerie.
With moodres pitee in hir brest enclosed,
She gooth, as she were half out of hir mynde,
To every place where she hath supposed
By liklihede hir litel child to finde;
And evere on Cristes mooder, meeke and kynde
She cride, and atte laste thus she wroghte,
Among the cursed Jewes she hym soghte
(the poor child’s mother is frantic and waits all night for the little boy to return…..she discovers that he was last seen alive in the ‘jewish quarter’!)
She frayneth, and she preyeth pitously
To every Jew that dwelte in thilke place,
To telle hir if hir child wente oght forby.
They seyde “nay”; but Jhesu, of his grace,
Yaf in hir thoght, inwith a litel space,
That in that place after hir sone she cryde,
Where he was casten in a pit bisyde.
(the jews ‘cover up’ for each other!….the mother finds the boy in a ditch….what happened to ‘the ward-robe’?..hmmm?)
O grete God, that parfournest thy laude
By mouth of innocentz, lo, heer thy myght!
This gemme of chastite, this emeraude,
And eek of martirdom the ruby bright,
Ther he with throte ykorven lay upright,
He Alma redemptoris gan to synge
So loude, that al the place gan to rynge.
The cristene folk that thurgh the strete wente
In coomen, for to wondre upon this thyng,
And hastily they for the provost sente.
He cam anon withouten tariyng,
And herieth Crist that is of hevene kyng,
And eek his mooder, honour of mankynde;
And after that, the Jewes leet he bynde.
(the jews are arrested!)
This child, with pitous lamentacioun,
Uptaken was, syngynge his song alway,
And with honour of greet processioun
They carien hym unto the nexte abbay;
His mooder swownynge by his beere lay,
Unnethe myghte the peple that was theere
This newe Rachel brynge fro his beere.
(the child, apparently still alive, is taken to a near-by abbey!)
With torment and with shameful deeth echon
This provost dooth the Jewes for to sterve,
That of this mordre wiste, and that anon.
He nolde no swich cursednesse observe;
“Yvele shal have that yvele wol deserve”;
Therfore with wilde hors he dide hem drawe,
And after that he heng hem, by the lawe
(the jews are convicted of murder/attempted murder and hung, drawn & quartered….NICE ONE!…which we still had that sort of ‘justice’!)
Upon this beere ay lith this innocent
Biforn the chief auter, whil masse laste,
And after that, the abbot with his covent
Han sped hem for to burien hym ful faste,
And whan they hooly water on hym caste,
Yet spak this child, whan spreynd was hooly water,
And song O Alma redemptoris mater!
This abbot, which that was an hooly man,
As monkes been – or elles oghte be –
This yonge child,to conjure he bigan,
And seyde, “O deere child, I halse thee,
In vertu of the hooly Trinitee,
Tel me what is thy cause for to synge,
Sith that thy throte is kut to my semynge?”
“My throte is kut unto my nekke boon,”
Seyde this child, “and, as by wey of kynde,
I sholde have dyed, ye, longe tyme agon,
But Jesu Crist, as ye in bookes fynde,
Wil that his glorie laste and be in mynde,
And for the worship of his mooder deere,
Yet may I synge O Alma loude and cleere.
“This welle of mercy, Cristes mooder swete,
I loved alwey as after my konnynge;
And whan that I my lyf sholde forlete,
To me she cam, and bad me for to synge
This antheme, verraily, in my deyynge,
As ye han herd, and whan that I hadde songe,
Me thoughte she leyde a greyn upon my tonge.
“Wherfore I synge, and synge I moot certeyn
In honour of that blisful mayden free,
Til fro my tonge of taken is the greyn.
And afterward thus seyde she to me,
`My litel child, now wol I fecche thee,
Whan that the greyn is fro thy tonge ytake;
Be nat agast, I wol thee nat forsake.'”
This hooly monk, this abbot, hym meene I,
His tonge out-caughte, and took awey the greyn,
And he yaf up the goost ful softely;
And whan this Abbot hadde this wonder seyn,
His salte teeris trikled doun as reyn,
And gruf he fil al plat upon the grounde,
And stille he lay, as he had been ybounde.
(the child dies singing the hymn he learnt!)
The covent eek lay on the pavement,
Wepynge, and heryen Cristes mooder deere.
And after that they ryse, and forth been went,
And tooken awey this martir from his beere,
And in a tombe of marbul stones cleere
Enclosen they his litel body sweete.
Ther he is now, God leve us for to meete!
O yonge Hugh of Lyncoln, slayn also
With cursed Jewes, as it is notable,
For it nis but a litel while ago,
Preye eek for us, we synful folk unstable,
That of his mercy God so merciable
On us his grete mercy multiplie,
For reverence of his mooder Marie. Amen.
(self-explanatory!)
Heere is ended the Prioresses Tale
DIE JEWz!
21 February, 2007 at 3:07 pm
More Chaucer:
Three felows wenten into a pubbe,
and gleefuly ther hands did rubbe,
in expectacion of revelry,
for twas the hour known as happy.
Graet botules of wine did thay quaff,
and hadde a realy goode laff,
til drunkenness held ful domynyon
for twas two for thee price of wone.
Yet aftar wine and meade and sack,
man must have an masyve snack,
graet pasties from Cornwall,
Scottish eggs, round lyke an ball.
Graet hams, quail, duck and geese,
thay sucked the bones and dranke the greese.
One fellowe stood all pale and wan,
for he was a vegiteryan.
Yet man knoweth that gluttony stoketh
the fyre of lechery,
upon three young wenches round and sly
the fellows cast a wanton eye,
One did approach with drunkan wink,
enquyring of wenche – you fancee an drink?
Sune they court them on their knee –
twas lyke some grotesque pupetry,
such was the lewdness and debauchery
twas lyke an sketche by Dicke Emry,
Exsept for Dicke Emry be not yet borne,
so that comparyson may not be drawne.
But then thee fellows began to pale,
for Quale are not an frend of ale,
And in their bellies much confusion,
from their throats forth vile extruision
Stinking foul coruption,
came spewing forth frome drooling lips,
thee fettid stench did fill the pubbe,
twas thar very arse of Belzibubbe.
Thrown thay out were, from thee Whore and Trumpet,
In thar streete, no coin, no strumpet,
homeward bound must quikly go,
and to that end, an ass thay stole.
Their hands all with vomit greased,
the ass was not beste pleased,
and threw them into an ditch of shite,
they all agreed twas an brilliant night
24 February, 2007 at 6:17 pm
what are the current war (its main product) and torture etc… but more jewish tribal murders…
27 February, 2007 at 1:15 pm
one wonders where all those kids are , whose faces are on all of those milk cartons….
21 February, 2008 at 5:57 pm
WE ARE IN A BABYLONION CAPTIVITY , WE ARE A CONQUERED PEOPLE, SCRIPTURES FOR AMERICA.COM TRUTH AT LAST!!!