(for Gerry)

When May has spent its little song,
And richer comes the June,
Through former eyes the heart will long
For May again in tune;
Though large with promise hope may be,
By future visions cast,
Our memoried thoughts will yearn to see
The happy little past.

And you, my loyal little friend,
(From May to June you go),
What years of loyalty attend
Great comradeship we know;
Yet joy have me in place of tears
To see your road depart,
For whether east or west your years,
A friend stays home at heart.

Then gladly let the Springtime pass
And Summer in its wake;
Ahead are fields of flower and grass
All fragrant for your sake:
With hearts of joy we say farewell,
With laughter, wave and nod,
It's always May for us who dwell
In seasons close to God.

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."

MY FATHER'S TUNES

My father had the gay good tunes, the like you'd seldom hear,
A whole day could he whistle them, an' thin he'd up an' sing,
The merry tunes an' twists o'them that suited all the year,
An' you wouldn't ask but listen if yourself stood there a king.
Early of a mornin' would he give "The Barefoot Boy" to us,
An' later on "The Rocky Road" or maybe "Mountain Lark,"
"Trottin' to the Fair" was a liltin' heart of joy to us,
An' whin we heard "The Coulin" sure the night was never dark.

An' what's the good o' foolish tunes, the moilin' folks 'ud say,
It's better teach the children work an' get the crock o' gold;
Thin sorra take their wisdom whin it makes them sad an' gray,--
A man is fitter have a song that never lets him old.
A stave of "Gillan's Apples" or a s