THE MOWERS
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here's four men mowing down by the river;I can hear the sound of the scythe strokes, fourSharp breaths swishing:--yea, but IAm sorry for what's i' store. The first man out o' the four that's mowin'Is mine: I mun claim him once for all:--But I'm sorry for him, on his young feet, knowin'None o' the trouble he's led to stall. As he sees me bringin' the dinner, he liftsHis head as proud as a deer that looksShoulder-deep out o' th' corn: and wipesHis scythe blade bright, unhooks His scythe stone, an' over the grass to me!--Lad, tha 's gotten a chilt in me,An' a man an' a father tha 'lt ha'e to be,My young slim lad, an' I'm sorry for thee.
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