White rose! My gentle, dear white rose!
Oh, look at me, kind men! 'Tis not a crown upon my head, 'tis waterplants, the greenish grass of ocean fields, with which the sea had clad me. What could I do? So once again I sought my dear, old sea, I knelt before its mighty waves, I prayed: "Oh, cover me, my dear, old sea, for nowhere else can I seek aid. The cruel stranger rules my home; my gentle children lifeless lie. And dost thou see those horrid flames, that rise where once my temples stood? Oh, cover me, protect me, my dear, my dear, old sea, for nowhere else can I seek aid!"
'Twas thus I spoke and wept in grief. And lo! the kindly sea gave me protection.
And out of the sea I came again, I came to tell you that I live.
Oh, look at me, kind men! For I am Belgium, and I live. My King, my Albert is alive; my Belgian people lives.
No, these are not tears that glisten in my eyes. Enough of tears! A holy wrath inflames my heart!
No, this is not a wound upon my bosom, 'tis a red, red rose, the quenchless flame of war, my sacred oath!
Red rose! My terrible red rose!
No, this wreath upon my head is not of waterplants, no, 'tis the crown of Belgium, the crown of a free nation!
Where is my sword?