On St. Baron's tower, commanding
       &nbsp Half of Flanders, his domain,
Charles the Emperor once was standing,
While beneath him on the landing
       &nbsp Stood Duke Alva and his train.

Like a print in books of fables,
       &nbsp Or a model made for show,
With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
       &nbsp Lay the city far below.

Through its squares and streets and alleys
       &nbsp Poured the populace of Ghent;
As a routed army rallies,
Or as rivers run through valleys,
       &nbsp Hurrying to their homes they went

"Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!"
       &nbsp Cried Duke Alva as he gazed;
"Haunt of traitors and deceivers,
Stronghold of insurgent weavers,
       &nbsp Let it to the ground be razed!"

On the Emperor's cap the feather
       &nbsp Nods, as laughing he replies:
"How many skins of Spanish leather,
Think you, would, if stitched together
       &nbsp Make a glove of such a size?"