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Translated by J. O. Sargent
THE GUILD-MASTERS of Bruges sat by cards and wine and song, | |
| The sailor, smith, and dyer had sat there all day long; | |
| And Coppenoll, the cobbler, from Ghent, was present too; | |
| He bawled in council the loudest, and made the meanest shoe. | |
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| The cobbler spake: “My masters, know ye the news to-night? | 5 |
| The king is coming to Candlemas, God grant, Let there be light!” | |
| At this the dyer stealthily peeps in the cards of the smith, | |
| Meanwhile of a fine old carol he is merrily humming the pith. | |
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| “A little king there once was,—a marmot, you may say,— | |
| Of work he had his hands full, for he slept both night and day; | 10 |
| At night, because ’t is the fashion in life to sleep by night, | |
| And by day because his slumbers had fatigued and tired him quite.” | |
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| Then spake the smith: “This Max here is made of the right stuff; | |
| He was always a gallant fellow, and I like him well enough; | |
| But all the lords his courtiers with hoofs of iron prance, | 15 |
| And on the corns of the people they love to tread and dance.” | |
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| With a sly chuckle the cobbler the smith on the shoulders hit, | |
| “I should like to make their boots for them,—I ’d give them a tight fit.” | |
| Then the dyer slapped on the table and tossed off his stoup of wine, | |
| And roared,—“The King of Clubs, bravo! the Knave of Diamonds is mine.” | 20 |
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| Then the sailor dashed in anger his cards upon the floor,— | |
| “A god-forsaken life it is you people live on shore; | |
| Damme! It always happens the knave is trumped by the king”: | |
| All spring up in confusion, stools tumble, and glasses ring. | |
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| Then cried the smith, “A sceptre, forsooth, is a sorry thing; | 25 |
| For me such work would not answer, but ’t will do well enough for a king.” | |
| Then the dyer,—“At home there lie mouldering many red rags of my own, | |
| Which, hung on the stool of the cobbler, would make it as fine as a throne.” | |
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| Stood Coppenoll the cobbler, who gravely shook his head, | |
| Oppressed with thought, and, muttering, thus to himself he said,— | 30 |
| “Respublica but recently has rubbed a hole in her shoe, | |
| And Master Coppenoll reckons the cobbling ’s for him to do. | |
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| “These kings—who gives the sceptre, gentlemen, into their hands? | |
| He who reigns in the heavens. He also created their lands. | |
| The Netherlands we have created, by our own labor and pains, | 35 |
| So the right of choosing our master in our own hands remains.” | |
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| “Bravo! thou gallant master! thou shalt our leader be.” | |
| So the others fall into chorus, and all shout clamorously; | |
| Out of the doors they tumble, the towers and steeples gain, | |
| And set the bells ringing the tocsin, and howl like a hurricane. | 40 |
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| In the market-place already the guilds their banners flaunted, | |
| And all the guild companions under them stood undaunted; | |
| Then first began in a whisper, then louder and louder to roll, | |
| From the mouth of the people and head-men, “Our leader be Coppenoll!” | |
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| In the streets and squares there ’s a shouting, there ’s a howl and a roar and a rush, | 45 |
| They ply the hammer and pickaxe, and the kingly columns crush; | |
| Many the sceptres of iron, and the crowns that yield to their blows, | |
| With many a king’s wooden noddle and many a stony lord’s nose. | |
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