1. My Wall

[Anderson / Cope / O'Malley / Preston]

And I do walk upon Wan's Dyke
And I do survey the land
And I did become the Reaper
with my own bare hands

For I am Wodan,
Though, some call me Hermes,
Some call me Roman Mercury,

God of cargos/God of weather
Hanging God of boundaries
Hanging God of Gibbet Hill
Killing God of hidden doorways

Spinning the yarn
from Wansdyke to Silbury

Spinning the taelbook/Telling the tale

Telling the tellbook to all and sundry
Keltiberian and Irish Gael

Then I hear camp followers bellow afar
Their shrieking lament for Johnny Guitar

Look to the farthest far horizon
Look to the bloodlust deepest scar
Look to the scattering Brythonic uprising

For this be the wall of Johnny Guitar

This be the ditch that you shall die in
Here be the wall that I shall cry on
Ditch dug with antler and ox bone shovel
This rising wall that
shades our ancient hovel.

Look to the north a quick mile yonder
Look to our Yggdrasilbury

Look to the Saxon chasing Viking
Look to the Norman chasing Saxon

Look to the German chasing German,
German German, German German

Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar

Play your gloom axe Stephen O'Malley
Sub bass clinging to the sides of the valley
Sub bass ringing in
each last ditch and combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom.

To rage in sound this valiant despair
Doom and gloom as each a splendid pair
To rage in sound the valiant despair

Not Abraham/Not Moses/Not Christ
Neither Jove to whom we sacrificed

Not Attis/Not Mohammed
But to hilltop Thor
We rave and dance and weep
and we implore:

Look to the farthest far horizon
Don't blame the messenger!
Don't blame the messenger!

Look to the farthest far horizon
Don't blame the messenger!
Don't blame the messenger!

For I am Death so Ragnarock with me
For I am Doom so Ragnarock with me

And I stood upon Wan's Dyke
And I did survey the land
And I did become the Reaper
with my own bare hands...

And then I was King Vikar
with his arms outstretched
And then I was King Vikar
with his broken neck
And then I was
the villain and the victim and the priest
Was grim misunderstanding
and was grim as death itself

My Wall
My Wall
caught in the thrall of My Wall

My Wall
My Wall
caught beneath the thrall of My Wall

Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar

Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar

Play your gloom axe Stephen O'Malley
Sub bass ringing the sides of the valley
Sub bass climbing up
each last ditch and combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom.

Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal wall

Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal wall

Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of my tidal wall

Mothers to your bosoms
Grab your child and sing
As to your breasts, cascade and sing

Brothers and fathers down to
The thing
In the middle of the town to judge at
The thing

These the effeminate priests of Frey
That don their drag
And shriek through the day
That drag their God
through muddiest fields
Spilling seed to raise the yields

These the odd castrated womb-men
On this onerous land of no men

There the infernal priestess or Freyja
These her people layer on layer
There the infernal priestess of Freyja

Visiting the farms/The seething seer
Visiting the farms/And rarely leaving
Mounting the tumulus/The people grieving

Dodens doddering dead and dying, oh...

Hear the modest priests of Ing
Who's harkening always let us sing
That let us free our tightest waistband
Lets us fertilise our own land

Spunked entire nations from one phallus
Spunked the vegetation into being
Spilled the super seed
into the one day superceded earth!

Old Mother Fucker/She was a cocksucker
To give her poor family a home
Went down on their ding dong
And drank for a sing song
But ended her sad life alone.

Around the church in Yatesbury, the dead
lie scattered underneath the sacred yew

as Sheila The Witch
attending sunday prayer
praises a God but never tells them who

and from my wall
observing Sheila The Witch
praises her God
but never explaining which

And every Monday night
by the light of Moon, those

Meddlesome Meddlesome Meddlesome Bells, and the heavy metal of the
Heathen Bells
Meddlesome Meddlesome Meddlesome
Bells, and the bad heavy metal of the Heathen bells

Meddlesome Meddlesome Meddlesome Bells, and the heavy metal of the
Heathen Bells
Meddlesome Meddlesome Meddlesome
Bells, and the bad heavy metal of the Heathen bells

And Doggen can testify to my claim
That the Christians of Yatesbury
are Christian in name
but their stomping/pounding actions attest
To their Christianity happiest at rest

And Doggen who played
at the John Stewart Hall
Can attest that its keeper
is the heathenest of all!

Is a shapeshifter tending
to her hogweed hidden
And her dear Paul wallows
in the village pond nay midden

For all of us are boundaried
by Wan's Dyke at the west,
and the great world hill which spies us,
and can never let us rest.

Bringing on Iranian Mithra
From its home beneath the east

Caught always in the thrall of my wall
Caught always in the thrall of my wall

Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of MY WALL

Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of MY WALL

Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall
Stand in the thrall of MY WALL

Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar

Here in the bloodlust deeper scar
For here be the wall of Johnny Guitar

Play your gloom axe Stephen O'Malley
Sub bass ringing the sides of the valley
Sub bass climbing up
each last ditch and combe
Greg Anderson purvey a sonic doom

Don't blame the messenger of gloom
Don't blame the messenger of doom

For this be the Ragnarockingest aeion
In stillness, O'Malley, Anderson,
play on... play on... play on... play on...


2. The Gates Of Ballard

[Anderson / Gammelsaeter / Preston / Ritter]

Håvard Hedde

Eg heiter Håvard Hedde, og er so ven ein kar.
No vil eg burt og gifta meg og rydja meg ein gard.
Eg bur upp under fjell,
og gjenta hev eg lova. Eg svik ho inkje hell!

Eg heiter Håvard Hedde og bur upp under nut;
No vil eg burt og gifta meg, eg vil 'kje lenger ganga gut.
Eg bur upp under fjell,
og gjenta hev eg lova. Eg svik ho inkje hell!

Garden han er liten, men skogen han er god.
Der heve eg tvo furor, og dei skal stå i ro.
Eg bur upp under fjell,
og gjenta hev eg lova. Eg svik ho inkje hell!<

Når borni dei vert mange, og skuldi aukar på.
So høgg eg ned den eine, den andre ho lyt stå.
Eg bur upp under fjell,
og gjenta hev eg lova. Eg svik ho inkje hell!

Men når me verte gamle og kvar skal hava sitt,
so høgg eg ned den andre, og då er skogen kvitt.
Eg bur upp under fjell,
og gjenta hev eg lova. Eg svik ho inkje hell!

Det var no ikkje undrands, at Håvard totte vondt;
Han reiste ifrå Lanje: Den myrke Haustenott.
Eg bur upp under fjell,
og gjenta hev eg lova. Eg svik ho inkje hell!

Han reiste ifrå Lanjei, og då var gjenta fest;
Men det var med ein annan, det hev han trega mest.
Eg bur upp under fjell.
Og gjenta hev eg lova - ho sveik meg likevel.


3. A Shaving Of The Horn That Spread You

[Gammelsaeter / O'Malley / Preston]