AT the tapster’s by the river, | |
| Just out of Rotterdam, | |
| In buff and feathered beaver, | |
| They ’re hard at flask and dram; | |
| The troop are bound for Flushing, | 5 |
| And start ere day shall break; | |
| With singing and with lushing | |
| ’T is best to keep awake. | |
| |
| The Maes will bear; unruffled | |
| Snow shines on creek and shore: | 10 |
| Well in his mantle muffled, | |
| The sentry guards the door. | |
| To stand the sleety breeze in, | |
| No trooper loves, perdy; | |
| “The devil take this freezing, | 15 |
| Your ‘upsee-frieze’ for me!” | |
| |
| To warm the watch, they now are | |
| Loud chorusing inside; | |
| “Brave William the Nassauer | |
| Am I, a German tried. | 20 |
| As Prince of Orange, truly | |
| My birthright free I gain; | |
| And still have honored duly | |
| The while the King of Spain.” | |
| |
| Against the window stooping, | 25 |
| He peeps within the house; | |
| There ’s song, and toast, and whooping; | |
| There ’s talking of the cause | |
| For which they ’re armed and herded, | |
| And sworn to die at need: | 30 |
| The sturdy warriors bearded | |
| Harangue and feud and plead. | |
| |
| Around the room paraded | |
| The bulky barrels shine; | |
| By buxom wenches aided, | 35 |
| The hostess serves the wine. | |
| For cap, a garnish warlike | |
| Of gilded foil is worn: | |
| ’T is thus the Holland fair like | |
| Their temples to adorn. | 40 |
| |
| From board to board the labor | |
| The busy household plies; | |
| The troopers sit, the sabre | |
| Between their booted thighs. | |
| And if the plume with powder | 45 |
| Embrowned their beavers wear, | |
| They cock them but the prouder | |
| Above their yellow hair. | |
| |
| And gay they swing the beaver; | |
| The wine springs foaming high; | 50 |
| “The Gueux, the Gueux forever!” | |
| Full thirty voices cry. | |
| And when the flask grows dry-lipped, | |
| And emptied is the cup, | |
| With rim adroitly filliped | 55 |
| They turn the glasses up. | |
| |
| That makes a famous ringing! | |
| Each glass becomes a bell | |
| To toll amidst their singing | |
| The King’s and Alva’s knell. | 60 |
| Thereat each trooper seizes | |
| Unconsciously his sword, | |
| And still the song increases, | |
| Till thus afar ’t is heard: | |
| |
| “Up! up, ye seventeen provinces! | 65 |
| Up, nations, to your feet! | |
| Our first of worthy princes | |
| With hearty welcome greet. | |
| Let each, like gallant freemen, | |
| Beside his banner stand, | 70 |
| And help to start the demon, | |
| Black Alva, from the land. | |
| |
| “He brings you no oppression; | |
| He comes to right your wrong, | |
| And help you to possession | 75 |
| Of what you ’ve lost too long. | |
| Each king of Spain’s adherent | |
| Give succor to his choice; | |
| For Orange, his lieutenant, | |
| For William, raise your voice! | 80 |
| |
| “Enlist! His drums and trumpets | |
| Proclaim no treacheries!” | |
| “They stick to the board like limpets!” | |
| The sergeant grumbling cries. | |
| “To horse! ’t is time we ’re making | 85 |
| At once for Count Lumé; | |
| And were the dawn not breaking, | |
| The snow would light our way!” | |
| |
| They cease to bang the tables; | |
| “Hark! calls the sentinel?” | 90 |
| Their chargers from the stables | |
| Led out, they spring to selle, | |
| Fast through the frosty morning | |
| Trot o’er the ringing ground; | |
| From Rotte’s sluices turning | 95 |
| For Scheldt the troop is bound. | |
| |
