There are four men mowing down by the Isar; 
 I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four 
 Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I 
 Am sorry for what's in store. 

 The first man out of the four that's mowing 
 Is mine, I claim him once and for all; 
 Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing 
 None of the trouble he's led to stall. 

 As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts 
 His head as proud as a deer that looks 
 Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes 
 His scythe-blade bright, unhooks 

 The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me. 
 Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me, 
 Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be, 
 Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.