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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