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.