Young Guns
Young farmers in their Sunday best,
All raffish rogues, all heading west.
They stop, they stoop, they laugh out loud
And draw admiring female crowds.
They have an air, a gentle grace
As each one dons his Sabbath face.
In their suits of tweed and twill
You see them walking up the hill.
Up the hill, and up the hill
To where the church spire rises still.
The hymns are sung, the prayers all said,
The sun expires, the sky grows red.
Young farmers walk in twos and threes
In groups, through parliamentary trees.
They talk of wheat, of corn and crop
Of livestock prices, rise and drop.
A drink of ale, a slice of pie
A song that’s sung, with voices high
With voices high, with voices high
As young girls catch the young guns eye.
While their fathers guard their stead
Young farmers now head home to bed.
They bid each other fond farewells
And listen to the toll of bells.
That echo down the valley deep
To where young farmers go to sleep.
And if a kiss was stole that night
T’would be remembered at first light.
Remembered at first light, first light
She was indeed a wondrous sight.
For six long days they’ll turn the earth
And curse their very day of birth.
While on the seventh they will return
To once again make candles burn
They’ll meet again without ill will
And walk once more up that steep hill.
Then after prayers are laid to rest
Young farmers walk in Sunday best.
In Sunday best, in Sunday best.
Towards the pleasures of the west.
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