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.