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The Wanderers

Edward S. Sorenson

Wide scattered and in disarray,
    With every wind that blows,
By sulky, boot and rattling dray
    The floating legion goes;

In tilted carts that rock and jar,
    In waggonettes and trucks;
By bike, and in a motor-car,
    A traveller de luxe.

And whether west or north they trek,
    Some in the saddle ride,
A bag beneath the horse’s neck,
    A quart-pot at the side.

Awhile they halt at shed and yard,
    On field and cattle camp;
Then onward by fair ways and hard,
    Again they ride or tramp.

Each with his quest and each his load,
    They’re met from strand to strand,
For every road’s a gipsy road
    That reins the hinterland.

Beside the never-ending ways,
    Along a thousand streams,.
Through winter nights and rainy days
    The friendly camp-fire gleams.

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