The Legend of Ulenspiegel by Charles de Coster Book IV Chapter 9

Ulenspiegel, Lamme, and Nele had, like their friends and comrades, taken from the convents the wealth gotten from the people by the help of processions, feigned miracles, and other Roman mummeries. This was against the orders of the Silent, the prince of liberty, but the money helped with the charges of the war. Lamme Goedzak, not content with providing himself with money, looted from out the convents hams, sausages, flasks of beer and wine, and came back from them joyously carrying across his breast a baldric of fowls, geese, turkeys, capons, hens and pullets, and leading behind him on a rope certain monastical calves and pigs. And this by right of war, said he.
Rejoicing in each prize, he fetched it to the ship that there might be revel and feast, but lamented all the same that the master cook was so ignorant in the science of sauces and fricassees.
Now on that day the Beggars, having looked victoriously upon the cup, said to Ulenspiegel:
“Thou hast thy nose always in the wind to smell out news of terra firma; thou knowest all the adventures of the war: sing them to us. And Lamme shall beat the drum the while and the pretty little fifer shall squeal to the measure of thy song.”
And Ulenspiegel said:
“One bright cool day in May, Ludwig of Nassau, thinking to enter into Mons, finds not his footmen nor his horse. A few trusty men held a gate open and a drawbridge down, that he might have the town. But the citizens seized the gate and the drawbridge. Where are the soldiers of Count Louis? The citizens are about to hoist up the bridge. Count Louis winds his horn.”
And Ulenspiegel sang:
“Where are thy footmen and thy horse?They are in the woods, treading all down:Dry twigs, and lily of the valley in bloom.Master Sun makes all shine,Their ruddy warrior faces,The polished rumps of their horses;Count Ludwig winds his horn:They hear it. Softly beat the drum.“Full trot, bridle loose!Speed of the lightning, speed of the cloud:Water spout of clinking iron;They fly, the heavy horsemen!Haste! haste! to the rescue!The bridge rises… Send the spurInto the chargers’ bloody flanks.The bridge rises: The town is lost!“They are before it. Is it too late?Ride like the wind! Bridle loose!Guitoy de Chaumont on his Spanish steedLeaps on the bridge that falls again.The town is won! Do ye hearAlong the paven streets of MonsSpeed of the lightning, speed of the cloud,Waterspout of clinking iron!“Hurrah for Chaumont and his Spanish steed!Sound the clarion of joy, beat upon the drum:’Tis the hay month, fragrant are the meadows;The lark mounts up, singing in the sky:Long live the bird of freedom!Beat upon the drum of glory.Hurrah for Chaumont and the Spanish steed.Hey there. Drink up there.The town is won!.. Long live the Beggar!”And the Beggars sang on the ships: “Christ look down upon thy soldiers. Furbish our weapons, Lord. Long live the Beggar!”
And Nele, smiling, made the fife squeal amain, and Lamme beat the drum, and aloft, towards the sky, God’s temple, there were raised golden cups and hymns of liberty. And the waves, like sirens, bright and cool about the ships, murmured in harmony.