Of all traders agoing, begging it is my delight;

My rent it is paid and I lay down my bags ev’ry night:

I’ll throw away care and take a long staff in my hand,

And I’ll flourish each day courageously looking for chance.


With my belt round my shoulder and down my bags they do hang;

With a push and a joult it’s quickly I’ll have them yoked on;

With my horn by my side, likewise my skiver and can;

With my staff and long pike to fight the dogs as I gang,


To patterns and fairs I’ll go round for collection along,

I’ll seem to be lame and quite useless of one of my hands;

Like a pilgrim I’ll pray each day with my hat in my hands;

And at night in the alehouse I’ll stay and pay like a man.

An Irish Poem: This song gives a picture of the professional beggar who flourished before the famine of 1846.

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