A ragged traveler—a tramp—gnaws on a stolen turnip while he murmurs to himself. He barely glances at the crowded stagecoach swaying past; he speaks to no one, just slips along his quiet path. At nightfall, any ditch or abandoned shed will do. A smoked blanket arches over him, a handful of straw is his bed. He has no job, no trade, no permanent place. The speaker observes this figure with a calm, almost neutral eye, yet something unsettled lingers at the edges. There is pity here, but also a strange, reluctant respect for the tramp’s utter detachment. The man lives by a “lawless law”—no family ties, only the impulse to take what he needs and move on without guilt. The mood is solitary and raw, a mix of bleak freedom and eerie lightness. That final image—“dally with the winds and laugh at hell”—tips the poem into a wild, defiant note, suggesting that the tramp has slipped entirely beyond ordinary worry and fear.
The Tramp — Summary
He eats (a moment's stoppage to his song) The stolen turnip as he goes along; And hops along and heeds with careless eye The passing crowded stage coach reeling bye. He talks to none but wends his silent way, And finds a hovel at the close of day, Or under any hedge his house is made. He has no calling and 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 law that claims no kin But meet and plunder on and feel no sin-- No matter where they go or where they dwell They dally with the winds and laugh at hell.