Of Flemish design of most delicate grace.
While the watchman calls out, with a voice like a bell,
The time by the tower, and adds, “All is well.”
The tulips are hid ’neath a rug of soft white,
They’re dreaming of spring, and the sun warm and bright.
The rollicking lads, with the lassies in wake,
Sweep by on their ice skates of old Friesian make,
While the watchman calls out, with a voice like a bell,
The time by the tower, and adds, “All is well.”
In the land of the windmills, the stars one by one