| Shine, shine, the light of good works shine
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| The watch before the city gates depicted in their prime
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| That golden light all grimy now
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| Three hundred years have passed
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| The worthy Captain and his squad of troopers standing fast
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| The artist knew their faces well
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| The husbands of his lady friends
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| His creditors and councillors
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| In armour bright, the merchant men
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| Official moments of the guild
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| In poses keen from bygone days
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| The city fathers frozen there
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| Upon the canvas dark with age
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| The smell of paint, a flask of wine
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| And turn those faces all to me The blunderbuss and halberd-shaft
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| And Dutch respectability
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| They make their entrance one by one
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| Defenders of that way of life
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| The redbrick home, the bourgeoisie
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| Guitar lessons for the wife
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| So many years we suffered here
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| Our country racked with Spanish wars
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| Now comes a chance to find ourselves
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| And quiet reigns behind our doors
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| We think about posterity again
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| And so the pride of little men
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| The burghers good and true
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| Still living through the painter’s hand
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| Request you all to understand |