THE POET ON TRAMP.

Poets have ever been a roving crew,And honoured in their travels east and west.Old Homer with his alms-dish wandered throughIonia—Tasso ranged like one possessed;And Ovid was escorted ’gainst his willTo a place whose like ’s seen in Volterra still.I travel too, and not so meanly either,In a way which is most natural and meet,—I do not take account of wind or weather,But go, as nature meant, on my own feet,Step after step, in douce and measured wiseTaking, for pastime and for exercise.I am not taken for a vagabond,Nor do the folk call me a lackpenny;I pass for one who roves the world around,And goes afoot the better for to see.As Crœsus, it is true, I am not prized,But as a gentleman am recognised.For my part, I do everything I mayTo merit this respect, with all my might—With step most leisurely I take my way.To show I’m walking for my own delight,And as a proof that I have coin to spend,I always ask, “Where’s the best inn, my friend?”Sometimes most like a botanist I go,Keenly observing plants, with head bent down—Pick flowers, or make pretence of doing so,And pocket pebbles with a sapient frown.Or sometimes, like a painter, I stand stillAnd gaze for half-an-hour on vale and hill.When nearing some small village I retireInto a ditch, or else behind a mound,To sit and cool myself, if I perspire,Awhile—and dust my hat, and look aroundFor a fresh spring in some convenient place,To smarten up, and wash my hands and face.· · · · ·As I pass on, with slow and easy pace,“A gentleman from town,” the people say,“Most likely lodging in some neighbouring place,And sauntering forth t’ enjoy this summer day;”Ploughman and labourer lift their hats and stare,And take me for the Worshipful the Mayor.Entering the inn in unembarrassed wise,I say, “I think I’ll stay awhile,” and thenTo find my horse they cast inquiring eyes;“They wanted me to take one,” I explain,“But not to walk a bit were sin, I say,In such fine weather as we have to-day.”And that they may not think that I am tired,I stamp about the kitchen till it shakes.“How well I feel!” I shout like one inspired,—“A little exercise such difference makes!”They ask me where I stay—’tis not amissIf I reply, “Within a walk of this!”And, after all, Dame Nature legs has givenFor to support the person, more or less,And carry us to all the airts of heaven,—Not to be dangled in mere idleness;So any gentleman may use this limb,Nor cause his ancestors to blush for him.

Poets have ever been a roving crew,

And honoured in their travels east and west.

Old Homer with his alms-dish wandered through

Ionia—Tasso ranged like one possessed;

And Ovid was escorted ’gainst his will

To a place whose like ’s seen in Volterra still.

I travel too, and not so meanly either,In a way which is most natural and meet,—I do not take account of wind or weather,But go, as nature meant, on my own feet,Step after step, in douce and measured wiseTaking, for pastime and for exercise.

I travel too, and not so meanly either,

In a way which is most natural and meet,—

I do not take account of wind or weather,

But go, as nature meant, on my own feet,

Step after step, in douce and measured wise

Taking, for pastime and for exercise.

I am not taken for a vagabond,Nor do the folk call me a lackpenny;I pass for one who roves the world around,And goes afoot the better for to see.As Crœsus, it is true, I am not prized,But as a gentleman am recognised.

I am not taken for a vagabond,

Nor do the folk call me a lackpenny;

I pass for one who roves the world around,

And goes afoot the better for to see.

As Crœsus, it is true, I am not prized,

But as a gentleman am recognised.

For my part, I do everything I mayTo merit this respect, with all my might—With step most leisurely I take my way.To show I’m walking for my own delight,And as a proof that I have coin to spend,I always ask, “Where’s the best inn, my friend?”

For my part, I do everything I may

To merit this respect, with all my might—

With step most leisurely I take my way.

To show I’m walking for my own delight,

And as a proof that I have coin to spend,

I always ask, “Where’s the best inn, my friend?”

Sometimes most like a botanist I go,Keenly observing plants, with head bent down—Pick flowers, or make pretence of doing so,And pocket pebbles with a sapient frown.Or sometimes, like a painter, I stand stillAnd gaze for half-an-hour on vale and hill.

Sometimes most like a botanist I go,

Keenly observing plants, with head bent down—

Pick flowers, or make pretence of doing so,

And pocket pebbles with a sapient frown.

Or sometimes, like a painter, I stand still

And gaze for half-an-hour on vale and hill.

When nearing some small village I retireInto a ditch, or else behind a mound,To sit and cool myself, if I perspire,Awhile—and dust my hat, and look aroundFor a fresh spring in some convenient place,To smarten up, and wash my hands and face.

When nearing some small village I retire

Into a ditch, or else behind a mound,

To sit and cool myself, if I perspire,

Awhile—and dust my hat, and look around

For a fresh spring in some convenient place,

To smarten up, and wash my hands and face.

· · · · ·

As I pass on, with slow and easy pace,“A gentleman from town,” the people say,“Most likely lodging in some neighbouring place,And sauntering forth t’ enjoy this summer day;”Ploughman and labourer lift their hats and stare,And take me for the Worshipful the Mayor.

As I pass on, with slow and easy pace,

“A gentleman from town,” the people say,

“Most likely lodging in some neighbouring place,

And sauntering forth t’ enjoy this summer day;”

Ploughman and labourer lift their hats and stare,

And take me for the Worshipful the Mayor.

Entering the inn in unembarrassed wise,I say, “I think I’ll stay awhile,” and thenTo find my horse they cast inquiring eyes;“They wanted me to take one,” I explain,“But not to walk a bit were sin, I say,In such fine weather as we have to-day.”

Entering the inn in unembarrassed wise,

I say, “I think I’ll stay awhile,” and then

To find my horse they cast inquiring eyes;

“They wanted me to take one,” I explain,

“But not to walk a bit were sin, I say,

In such fine weather as we have to-day.”

And that they may not think that I am tired,I stamp about the kitchen till it shakes.“How well I feel!” I shout like one inspired,—“A little exercise such difference makes!”They ask me where I stay—’tis not amissIf I reply, “Within a walk of this!”

And that they may not think that I am tired,

I stamp about the kitchen till it shakes.

“How well I feel!” I shout like one inspired,—

“A little exercise such difference makes!”

They ask me where I stay—’tis not amiss

If I reply, “Within a walk of this!”

And, after all, Dame Nature legs has givenFor to support the person, more or less,And carry us to all the airts of heaven,—Not to be dangled in mere idleness;So any gentleman may use this limb,Nor cause his ancestors to blush for him.

And, after all, Dame Nature legs has given

For to support the person, more or less,

And carry us to all the airts of heaven,—

Not to be dangled in mere idleness;

So any gentleman may use this limb,

Nor cause his ancestors to blush for him.

[But a walking-tour is not without its inconveniences. The poet dwells on the discomforts of heat, cold weather, and muddy roads.]

Then, if perchance a carriage passes by,Me the postillion eyes with savage mind,And backward cracks his whip, suspecting I,To steal a ride, am getting up behind.I look not like a knave, yet constantlyThe travellers on their luggage keep an eye.I ask mine host o’ the inn if there’s a bed;From head to foot he looks me coldly o’er,Then turns his back, with haughtiness ill-bred,And deigns no answer. I seem to be once moreIn London, where the man in liveryAsks first your name, then “Not at home,” says he.

Then, if perchance a carriage passes by,

Me the postillion eyes with savage mind,

And backward cracks his whip, suspecting I,

To steal a ride, am getting up behind.

I look not like a knave, yet constantly

The travellers on their luggage keep an eye.

I ask mine host o’ the inn if there’s a bed;From head to foot he looks me coldly o’er,Then turns his back, with haughtiness ill-bred,And deigns no answer. I seem to be once moreIn London, where the man in liveryAsks first your name, then “Not at home,” says he.

I ask mine host o’ the inn if there’s a bed;

From head to foot he looks me coldly o’er,

Then turns his back, with haughtiness ill-bred,

And deigns no answer. I seem to be once more

In London, where the man in livery

Asks first your name, then “Not at home,” says he.

[Respectable inns always have some excuse for refusing to entertain the wayfarer. Some one at last takes pity on him and points out a low pot-house, with a green branch for a sign, where every one is welcome. Here too, however, he is contemptuously received. The landlord looks at the dust on his boots, and hesitates about admitting him; the chambermaids address him, not as “Sir,” but as “You, there!” and when dinner is served he is not asked to sit down to table.]

And when I ask to go to bed, appearsThe stable-boy with rushlight in his hand,And takes me up some seven flights of stairsTo a den with neither chair nor washhand stand;He sets the candle down upon the floor,And, after going out, he locks the door.

And when I ask to go to bed, appears

The stable-boy with rushlight in his hand,

And takes me up some seven flights of stairs

To a den with neither chair nor washhand stand;

He sets the candle down upon the floor,

And, after going out, he locks the door.

[Yet these inconveniences are not the invariable rule; and, after all, they are outweighed by the advantages of travelling on foot. One is perfectly independent, and can do as one likes, which is not always the case with wealthy people.]

And thus on foot I take my cheerful way,—Moreover, with economy ’tis fraught;My shoes are paid for—I take leave to say,I doubt my lord’s fine equipage is not.Since then I pay my way respectably—Henceforth, none but St. Francis’ nag[9]for me!Filippo Pananti(1776–1837).

And thus on foot I take my cheerful way,—

Moreover, with economy ’tis fraught;

My shoes are paid for—I take leave to say,

I doubt my lord’s fine equipage is not.

Since then I pay my way respectably—

Henceforth, none but St. Francis’ nag[9]for me!

Filippo Pananti(1776–1837).

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