The lads in their hundreds by George Butterworth Lyrics

The lads in their hundreds to Ludlow come in for the fair
There's men from the barn and the forge and the mill and the fold
The lads for the girls and the lads for the liquor are there
And there with the rest are the lads that will never be old

There's chaps from the town and the field and the till and the cart
And many to count are the stalwart, and many the brave
And many the handsome of face and the handsome of heart
And few that will carry their looks or their truth to the grave

I wish one could know them, I wish there were tokens to tell
The fortunate fellows that now you can never discern;
And then one could talk with them friendly and wish them farewell
And watch them depart on the way that they will not return

But now you may stare as you like and there's nothing to scan;
And brushing your elbow unguessed-at and not to be told
They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man
The lads that will die in their glory and never be old