The Itinerants

The Itinerants roam from place to place
From Irish town to town
And they are a breed of wandering race
On whom some settled folk look down.

But Itinerants they are human too
The same as you and me
And like us life they are passing through
Like water to the sea.

They've been wanderers since Cromwell's time
He put them on the road
And gave rise to a drifter breed
Those of 'no fixed abode'

Their ancestors were tinsmiths
A skilled and wandering clan
They mended pots and kettles
And made tin cups and cans.

But most of the present day Itinerants
Do not have the tin smith skill
They are sort of roaming dealers
Restless as a mountain rill.

And Itinerants who decide to settle
Not made to feel at home
And of them few do ever say
They too are of our own.

They are known to some as 'tinker'
Those who question their worth
And they are looked on as inferior
And such ill feeling cause hurt.

All Itinerants are klepto kind
And they don't deserve fair play
And the proper place for them is jail
That's what some people say.

But the majority of them are good people
And that so happens to be true
And why must the good souls suffer
For the sins of the few?

It's not right to discriminate against fellow members
Of the human family
And if you don't like Itinerants
Then why not let them be.