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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 |
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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 |