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