The Pedlar Poem by Ruth Manning-Sanders

Coming up the path behold
A pedlar bent and very old.
With round dark eye,
A black bag in his small right hand.
In his left a stout hedge wand ;
A faded hat, a faded coat,
And wrapped about his wizened throat
A ragged tie.

Round his shoulders there is hung
A scarlet wallet crosswise slung,
And so he takes his way
Through country roads and little town,
Wandering up and wandering down.
Meeting day by day.
Labourers, tradesmen, rich men too.
But those he greets are very few.

So oft his little eyes are bent
Searching the ground in mild content.
He'll not heed unless you sue,
' Pedlar, pedlar, tell me true,
What it is you sell.'
Then he'll smile as blessing you.
Open his black bag and show
Threads and buttons in a row.
Needles and tapes as well.

Useful things for folk of earth ;
You may buy your pennyworth
Or nothing have:
For a single piece of gold
All that the black bag can hold
You may crave—
There's a blessing in his eye
You shall have whate'er you buy.

But the scarlet bag shall be
A close buckled mystery
No man may undo ;
Let your eye but careless stray
Over it, he'll shake his head,
Smile farewell as blessing you
Whom he leaves discomforted,
And briskly go his way.

Not for you and not for me
Is his secret, but maybe,
In some little town.
At the end of one old street,
He a traveller will meet.
Whom beholding joyously,
He will straight set down
Stick and bag, and open wide
That scarlet wallet at his side.

The treasure that he will not sell.
What it is I cannot tell,
But I know
'Tis for that his round black eye
Beams with happy mystery,
'Tis for that his blessings fall,
Though scarce he heeds a man at all
As searching he must go.
Bent and old from town to town.
Wandering up and wandering down.