“No man now hears in the taverns
The jolly clink of pots,
Nor the clear voices of girls
Singing in bands about the streets.
And Brabant and Flanders, lands of mirth,
Are become the lands of tears.
Beat upon the drum of woe.
“Land of our fathers, sufferer beloved,
Stoop not your brow to the murderer’s foot,
Toilsome bees, rush in your swarms,