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."