Conjectures obtain that for language profane,
There is no such place as Flanders.
This is the kind of talk you’ll find
If ever you go to Flanders.”
While I should not wish to take such extreme ground as that assumed, in another connection, by a New York police inspector, when he observed that “every one of them facts has been verified to be absolutely untrue,” still I must say that, as far as I could notice, there is nothing notable about the Flemish oath as employed to-day. Indeed, it is more than likely that one could pass a long and pleasant evening loitering among the tavernes and recreation haunts of the Belgian soldier and civilian and come across nothing more vocally spirited than robust guffaws, possibly punctuated discreetly, or heavy fists thundering the time as a couple of comrades scrape over the sanded floor in the contagious rhythm of that venerable and favorite waltz of the Netherlands,—
“Rosa, willen wy dansen?
Danst Rosa; danst Rosa.
Rosa, willen wy dansen?
Danst Rosa zoet!”