‘Tis usually at harvest time, these thoughts come back to tease, of boyhood days in happy times – sweet joyous memories – like when Uncle Dan came calling from his farm in County Clare, and brought me home along with him to holiday out there. Now it was a busy time of year – busy as you could get – the turf was ricked, the hay was home, but the corn was not saved yet; as I left my home with admonitions and this is how they ran: “You won’t be bold”! “Do as you’re told!” “And help as best you can”. At last the oats were ripe to cut and the weather holding fine, the meitheal arrived, eager for work, for all were glad to join in harvesting the blessed crop – why not when ‘twas for Dan – no kinder soul for miles around, in fact no better man! There were cousins there, both dark and fair, all sun-tanned like a nut, McMahons from Killuran, all anxious for the cut, McNamaras from Rossnealon with old Willie in the van, if you needed advice – a “senior counsel” – faith, Willie was your man! Good neighbours there to do their bit as only good neighbours can, and servant “boys”, faith one at least more than fifty years a man; they all fell to and took their places without any great ado the veterans and the bright young blades, each knew just what to do. And proud was I to take my place, a twelve years old garsún, a “townie” too – O, soon I’d rue my offer made too soon; I had never bound, nor stooked before – this was my introduction – ‘twas before the reaper and binder, the combine not yet working. I watched and learned, then bent my back and started binding sheaves, for a while ‘twas fun, but later on, my hands struck thistle leaves; then the pains began above the knees and my back felt like ‘twould break; whilst the sun shone down and laughed at me and burned the back of my neck. I looked about as the work went on, each one in his task engrossed, but they felt no pain, or so it seemed, whilst I felt that I would roast – but I lowered my head and gritted my teeth, as I tossed my sheaves behind I’d show them this “townie” could do his bit, distress I tried to hide. But relief came in its own good time, and what a joy to hear! “Here’s the “Four o’clock”, said Uncle Dan, “now for a drop of beer”; Bridie, Eileen and Nancy brought stout and cider too, an enamel pail of fresh drawn tea, I swear ‘twas Heaven’s brew. We sat us down beside the stooks, such pleasure was sweetest bliss, they offered egg sandwiches, then apple tarts, which nobody could resist; now I knew the hen house for half a week had been raided every day – they tried the hedges too, no doubt, where a few hens were wont to lay. Then the stories and the talk began, the banter and the jesting, when all by now had quenched their thirst and everyone was resting; they lit their smokes and cracked their jokes – laughter everywhere – with happiness all around that stubble ground, ‘twas wholesome to be there! Then suddenly, Uncle Dan, it was, who silenced the assembly, said “we’ll have a song from little Tom from Limerick” – I felt all atrembly, I blushed red as the holly berry, in confusion my head bent down – for I knew all eyes were now on me – but I could not let Dan down. Then I lifted my head and looked at the sky and prayed for inspiration, I cleared my throat whilst the silence held, then I sang for them An Cúilfhionn; for this was the song the Brother taught me for the Feis, so well, I gave it all he taught me then and an extra bit as well. I sang my best and each one there was listening quite intently, then Mattie murmured “pleasure to you Tom” – I found courage then aplenty; so I softened the high notes, sweet as I could and I heard young Kitty whisper “He’s like a lark”, ‘twas grand to hear, compensation for each blister. The last note sung and then the applause burst like a rolling tide, - “Good on you, Tom”, “By the holy, you’re great!”, “I never heard the like”, and the calls for another song, “aris”, “encore”, “ar aghaidh”, what balm for a twelve years’ old garsún – ‘twas devilish then, my pride! A hush spread over the cornfield, not a sound nor a single word, then when I started up “Clare’s Dragoons” Dalcassian blood was stirred, and in the chorus each one joined, the young and old as well, when I “Vive la’d” then they did too – we gave that chorus hell! I sang of “how old Ireland pines”, slowly now, until the lark became an eagle, then I hit it loud and shrill “Let Limerick be your battle cry” – that fired our gallant band – in fancy there I had put a sabre in each Dalcassian’s hand. The crows and rooks near the faraway stooks took fright, it was no wonder! they circled ‘round and their clattering sound added to the thunder; said Dan “the likes was not heard here since the evictions at Bodyke”. - elated was I, but such measure of praise, restored shyness to my psyche. So here’s to them all and those far off days, each harvest still reminding, for most are in Heavenly fields of corn, that never needs the binding, - then kindness and love lit each happy heart, their blessed aura shining – I feel them looking towards us now, hoping we’ll soon be joining. And if I find that Heavenly home, wherein there is no pain I’ll meet the old folk smoking their pipes and the girls will smile again. and when Saint Peter welcomes me in – for some that will be a shock – I’ll ask him if he’d care to join us for the “four o’clock”.