XXVIII
It was at the beginning of May. The sky was clear, the ship sailed proudly on the billows, and Ulenspiegel sang this song:
The ashes beat on my heart,
The murderers are come;
With daggers have they struck at us,
Fiercely, with fire and sword have they struck at us,
They have bribed us most vilely and spied on us,
Where are love and fidelity now?
In exchange for those sweetest of virtues,
Betrayal and fraud have they heaped on us.
Yet may they that have murdered be murdered themselves!
Beat, beat, drum of war!
Long live the Beggarmen! Loud beat the drum!
La Brièle has fallen,
Flushing too, the key to the Scheldt!
God is good, for Camp-veere is taken,
Taken the place where the guns of all Zeeland were stored!
Now cannon-balls, powder, and bullets are ours,
Bullets of iron, bullets of brass.
God is with us—against us, then, who?
The drum! Beat the drum of glory and war!
Long live the Beggarmen! Beat the drum!
And again Ulenspiegel lifted up his voice and sang:
O Duke! Hark to the voice of the People,
Murmuring so strong in the distance,
Like the sea that swells in the season of tempest!
Enough of silver and gold and of blood,
Of ruins enough! Beat the drum! Beat the drum!
The sword is drawn.
Duke! Duke of Alba, Duke of Blood,
Behold the stalls and the shops, they are closed.
Brewers and bakers, grocers and butchers,
Refuse one and all to do business for nothing.
When you pass who’ll salute you?
None. Do you feel, then, the pestilent mist
Of hate and scorn closing around you?
For the fair land of Flanders,
The gay land of Brabant,
Now are sad as a churchyard.
And where once in the days of our liberty
Sounded the violas, screamed the fifes and the bagpipes,
Now there is silence and death.
Beat the drum, the drum of war.
And now, ’stead of all the glad faces
Of those that drank and made love to the sound of sweet singing,
Now is naught but pale faces
Of they that await in dumb resignation
The blade of the sword of injustice.
Beat the drum, the drum of war.
O land of our fathers, suffering, belovèd,
Bow not your head ’neath the foot of the murderer!
And you, busy bees, fling yourselves now
In swarms ’gainst the hornets of Spain.
And you bodies of women and girls
That are buried alive
Cry to Christ: Vengeance!
Wander by night in the fields, poor souls,
Cry to God!
Every arm now trembles to strike.
The sword is drawn.
Duke, we will tear out your entrails,
Yea, we will whip you in the face!
Beat the drum. The sword is drawn.
Beat the drum. Long live the Beggarmen!
And all the sailors and soldiers on the ship of Ulenspiegel, and they also that were on the ships near by, took up the refrain and sang out also:
The sword is drawn. Long live the Beggarmen!
And the sound of their voices was like the growl of the thunder of deliverance.