There are four men mowing down by the Isar; br I can hear the swish of the scythe-strokes, four br Sharp breaths taken: yea, and I br Am sorry for what's in store. br br The first man out of the four that's mowing br Is mine, I claim him once and for all; br Though it's sorry I am, on his young feet, knowing br None of the trouble he's led to stall. br br As he sees me bringing the dinner, he lifts br His head as proud as a deer that looks br Shoulder-deep out of the corn; and wipes br His scythe-blade bright, unhooks br br The scythe-stone and over the stubble to me. br Lad, thou hast gotten a child in me, br Laddie, a man thou'lt ha'e to be, br Yea, though I'm sorry for thee.