Down the dusty road we hurried, barefoot in the summer sun, shoes tight-laced about our shoulders made it harder still to run. Hand in hand, four little boys – brothers we, kicking up the dust, towards Groody River for a swim, carefree, innocence on the burst. Along the narrow winding road by Hanley’s where the red rose scent bravely battled with the piggery smells, faster still eight little feet went. Past Byrne’s, then Farrell’s where rose blooms climbed and pink spattered the Killaloe slates, and as we quickly hurried on by, kindly greetings floated o’er the gate. At last we reached the old sawmill, sweet scent of pinewood freshly sawn; singly now on the riverbank, to the sandy pool at last we have come. Last one in gets a ducking! what a scramble and what a splash! each one showing his fancy stroke, each one trying to cut a dash! What bliss those honeyed summers were, long years cannot dim those happy days, memories mist my ageing eyes, sweet Christ! ‘twere kinder to let them fade. Now one old men left, on my daily walk I’ll take it easy on the hill; thrice on my shoulder, with others arms entwined I have borne coffins, then laid them still.