Said the Sea to the Dutchman, " Ho, make way!
For the march of the Flood is mine.
Shall the bar of thine arm my coursers stay,
In the charge of my whelming brine? "
To the Sea said the Dutchman, " Ho, stand back!
I bide for the dole and fee,
To the hands that serve and the loins that lack;
And a hail to the Strong and Free.
In the might of the Lord of the Deep I stand, and I set
His bonds to thee.
" A bound in the Dyke, and a mete in the Dune,
And a stay in the stout Sea-wall.
In the swing of my spade is the eagle's rune,
Tho' the Norland ravens squall.
And the silt shall flow and the clod shall grow,
From Zeeland to Zuyder Zee;
And a man shall a freeman's foothold know,
Where the arm of a man is free.
For the lord of the Dutchman's land, the lord of the
Dutchman's love shall be.
" Flambeau and falchion, shackle and rack
In the lust of a " Holy" hate
No glut of carnage, rapine and sack,
Nor a Thousand Fears, can sate.
No tear for ruth, and no shudder for shame,
No Christ for the brand and pike;
Only the rage of the " Beggar's" claim,
And the roar of the cloven dyke.
Only the arm of the Lord upheaved, and the sword of the Lord to strike. "
Said the Sea, " O Nederland! Alone,
You battle against the stars.
For Brill's hoarse cry, and Alkmaar's groan,
I storm at your stubborn bars.
In Heiliger Lee your Rachels weep,
In Leyden your children die.
Death unto Life, Deep unto Deep!
And my tides leap at the cry.
Set wide your gates to my hosts, and sound your pealing trumpets high! "
" Oranje Boven! " — Fate is mute,
And the Silent soul is lord,
" Oranje Boven! " — Trump and lute
Wait on the grim, dumb sword.
When the brand is cold, and the blade is rust,
And the gyve and the rack are shows,
When the bones of the Brave enrich the dust
Where a Leyden garden grows —
Then the organ swell of the Sea shall tell how Nederland uprose.
On Yssel's flanks, with thrifty sails,
The windmills churn the air,
Where erst a Viking's galley rails
Their bossed shields laid bare.
I dream that the high-beaked triremes sweep
A path for the hordes of Rome,
As I rock in a fisher's boat, asleep,
In the lee of a hedger's home,
While the bells are chiming a psalm of Rest from storied tower and dome.
And Thou, O fairest flower of Peace,
Child of a happy star!
Glories, and guerdons of increase,
Wreathe thy ancestral Lar.
White Righteousness in thine array,
And on thy shield Renown,
Honor shall celebrate thy day,
And Law salute thy crown,
While grass shall grow and water flow, and the ships sail up and down.
For the march of the Flood is mine.
Shall the bar of thine arm my coursers stay,
In the charge of my whelming brine? "
To the Sea said the Dutchman, " Ho, stand back!
I bide for the dole and fee,
To the hands that serve and the loins that lack;
And a hail to the Strong and Free.
In the might of the Lord of the Deep I stand, and I set
His bonds to thee.
" A bound in the Dyke, and a mete in the Dune,
And a stay in the stout Sea-wall.
In the swing of my spade is the eagle's rune,
Tho' the Norland ravens squall.
And the silt shall flow and the clod shall grow,
From Zeeland to Zuyder Zee;
And a man shall a freeman's foothold know,
Where the arm of a man is free.
For the lord of the Dutchman's land, the lord of the
Dutchman's love shall be.
" Flambeau and falchion, shackle and rack
In the lust of a " Holy" hate
No glut of carnage, rapine and sack,
Nor a Thousand Fears, can sate.
No tear for ruth, and no shudder for shame,
No Christ for the brand and pike;
Only the rage of the " Beggar's" claim,
And the roar of the cloven dyke.
Only the arm of the Lord upheaved, and the sword of the Lord to strike. "
Said the Sea, " O Nederland! Alone,
You battle against the stars.
For Brill's hoarse cry, and Alkmaar's groan,
I storm at your stubborn bars.
In Heiliger Lee your Rachels weep,
In Leyden your children die.
Death unto Life, Deep unto Deep!
And my tides leap at the cry.
Set wide your gates to my hosts, and sound your pealing trumpets high! "
" Oranje Boven! " — Fate is mute,
And the Silent soul is lord,
" Oranje Boven! " — Trump and lute
Wait on the grim, dumb sword.
When the brand is cold, and the blade is rust,
And the gyve and the rack are shows,
When the bones of the Brave enrich the dust
Where a Leyden garden grows —
Then the organ swell of the Sea shall tell how Nederland uprose.
On Yssel's flanks, with thrifty sails,
The windmills churn the air,
Where erst a Viking's galley rails
Their bossed shields laid bare.
I dream that the high-beaked triremes sweep
A path for the hordes of Rome,
As I rock in a fisher's boat, asleep,
In the lee of a hedger's home,
While the bells are chiming a psalm of Rest from storied tower and dome.
And Thou, O fairest flower of Peace,
Child of a happy star!
Glories, and guerdons of increase,
Wreathe thy ancestral Lar.
White Righteousness in thine array,
And on thy shield Renown,
Honor shall celebrate thy day,
And Law salute thy crown,
While grass shall grow and water flow, and the ships sail up and down.