Ballads of Peace in War

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."