A Honest Tradesman

I reside by the blue steep hills,
By the swamps of Catalee,
Where the parrot's shriek
Astounds the meek
And resounds to the bank of the sea.

Travelers on their way
To Skye or Innisfree
Implore advice
For a vouchsafe night,
Which I give them for a fee.

The fee they can always afford;
The product consistently sound:
I ferry them o'er
To a cave by the shore
And bury them underground.

So what sort of liar am I,
Who holds up his end of the deal?
Asleep in their bunks
They've no need for gold chunks,
So do not say, sir, that I steal.