THE STORYTELLER

Tim of the Tales they call me,

With a welcome heart and hand;

But little they hold my brother

For all his cattle and land.

If I be walking the high road

From Clare that goes to the sea,

A troop of the young run leaping

To gather a story from me.

Tim of the Tales, the folk say,

Is known the world around,

For children by taking his stories

To their homes in foreign ground.

I pity my brother his fortunes,

And how he sits alone,

With the money that keeps his body,

But leaves his heart a stone.

And sometimes do I be feeling

A dream of death in my ear,

And a heaven of children calling,

“Tim of the Tales is here.”