Father wind to a good son's ears of corn

A sword cleaved my breast at last I fell face down in the mud

many boots ground me held me slippery with blood

I died with thoughts of my son of myself so long before

wrestling with the weather and the heather on the moor

yet do you know Son I have not left your side

I walk with you now as always with a Fathers long wise stride

though we part in time yet we grow closer in time

for I am also a son who remembers a father of mine

leave your sword in the sheath do not it wield

walk peacefully on the heath and till your fields