The stolen turnip as he goes along
& hops along & heeds with careless eye
The passing crowded stage coach reeling bye
He talks to none but wends his silent way
& finds a hovel at the close of day
Or under any hedge his house is made
He has no calling & he owns no trade
An old smoaked blanket arches oer his head
A whisp of straw or stubble makes his bed
He knows a lawless clan that claims no kin
But meet & plunder on & feel no sin
No matter where they go or where they dwell
They dally with the winds and laugh at hell
Pet MS A61 p49
Tibbles II 344
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