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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

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