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.