For those who doubt the validity of the White Dragon as a symbol of the ethnically English folk they would do well to note that the concept of the English White Dragon was revived in the late 20th century: it is not however a 20th century invention. That great poet and author Sir Walter Scott was already aware of the association between the White Dragon and the English when he composed his remarkable poem The Saxon War Song presumably in the early 19th century. No doubt this was based at least in part on the story of the fighting red and white dragons referred to by Nennius in his 9th century History of the Brittons and Geoffrey of Monmouth in his monumental History of the Kings of Britain in the 12th century.
There are of course those who would disparage the work of these early historians and this disparagement is usually based upon nothing more than their own 21st century conceit. It is vital therefore that we make ourselves familiar with these works as they are important for the history of our folk.
I dedicate The Saxon War Song to my ancestor Hengist who was of course a descendant of Woden via Wictgils, Witta and Wecta according to Bede in his An Ecclesiastical History of the English People, completed in about the year 731 CE. So here we have a clear link between the White Dragon and Woden via his great great grandson Hengist.
The poem is also prophetic in nature for it appears to predict the demise of the English nation, a process which started in June 1948 with Windrush under the premiership of the traitor Clement Atlee.
Sons of the White Dragon!
Kindle the torch,
Daughter of Hengist!
The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet,
It is hard, broad and sharp pointed;
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,
It steams and glitters blue with sulpher.
Whet the steel, the raven croaks!
Light the torch, Zernebrock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!
The eagle screams-he rides on their bosom.
Scream not, grey rider of the sable cloud,
Thy banquet is prepared!
The maidens of Valhalla look forth,
The race of Hengist will send them guests.
Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla!
And strike your loud timbrels for joy!
Many a haughty step bends to your halls,
Many a helmed head.
The black clouds gather round;
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant!
The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest against them;
He, the bright consumer of palaces,
Broad waves he his blazing banner,
Red, wide, and dusky,
Over the strife of the valiant;
His joy is the clashing swords and broken bucklers;
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts warm from the wound!
The sword cleaveth the helmet;
The strong armour is pierced by the lance:
Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes,
Engines break down the fences of battle.
All must perish!
The race of Hengist is gone-
The name of Horsa is no more!
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword!
Let your blades drink blood like wine;
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter,
By the light of blazing halls!
Strong be your swords while your blood is warm.
And spare neither for pity nor fear,
For vengeance hath but an hour;
Strong hate itself shall expire!
I also must perish.