Hobo Poems
"All around the water tank waitin' for a train i'm a thousand miles away from home just a'standin' in the rain." A Hobo poem.
There's a race of men that don't fit in They roam the fields and roam the sea There's a race that can't stay still And they climb the mountain crest So they break the heart of kith and kin For theirs si the curse of the gypsy blood And roam the world at will And they don't know how to rest. Robert Service, Poet.
I grabbed a hold of an old freight train And the mysteries of a hobo's life And around the country I traveled To me was soon unraveled. T Bone Slim, The Mysteries of a Hobo Life.
You wonder why I'm a hobo and sleep in the ditch Well its not because I'm lazy, I just don't want to be rich. Now I could be a banker if I wanted to be, But the thought of an iron cage is too suggestive to me. Now I could be a broker without the slightest excuse, But look at 1929 and tell me what's the use. Traditional Hobo Verse
"A hobo is a man who will work when he can get it, at a decent wage, but insists upon the right to beat his way from town to town to better his condition. . . men of character, not yeggs, crooksor bums." Jeff Davis, King of the Hobos, 1913.
I'm sittin' Drinkin' Waitin' Thinkin' Hopin' for a train. This is a poem written by some unknown traveler; it was left written on the water tank at the Black Butte siding.
The Big Rock Candy Mountain "One evening as the sun went down And the jungle fire was burning Down the track came a hobo hiking And he said, "Boys I'm not turning- I'm heading for a land that's far away, Beside the crystal fountain. So, come with me; we'll go and see The Big Rock Candy Mountain." The Big Rock Candy Mountain, a famous old hobo poem.
Who has not felt the urge to cast off all responsibilities and strike out for parts unknown?. Nels Anderson.
I've Decked the Tops I've decked the tops of flying cars That leaped across the night; The long and level coaches skimmed Low, like a swallow's flight. Close to the sleet-bit blinds I've clung Rocking on and on; All night I've crouched in empty cars That rode into the dawn, Seeing the ravelled edge of life In jails, on rolling freights And learning rough and ready ways From rough and ready mates. Harry Kemp (the Tramp Poet) "Chanteys & Ballads: Sea-Chanteys, Tramp Ballads & Other Ballads & Poems," Brentano's, NY 1920 p. 92.
"The winter passes and the warm winds of May made me long to wander again. The whistling of a locomotive on a still night had a lure, unexplainable, yet strong, like the light which leads a moth to destruction." "Wet gypsies of life we were, asking little, and getting less, and deserving less than that." "The imaginative young vagabond quickly loses the social instincts that help to make life bearable for other men. Always he hears voices calling in the night from far-away places where blue waters lap strange shores. He hears birds singing and crickets chirping a luring roundelay. He sees the moon, yellow ghost of a dead planet, haunting the earth." Jim Tully, "Beggars of Life," Albert & Charles Boni, NY 1925, pages 185, 319, 332.
Bread Oh, my heart it is just achin' For a little bit of bacon A hunk of bread, a little mug of brew I'm tired of seein' scenery Just lead me to a beanery Where there's something more than only air to chew Henry Herbert Knibbs, "Songs of the Outlands: Ballads of the Hoboes & Other Verse," Houghton, Mifflin 1914.
Nothing To Do But Go I'm wondering son with the nervous feet, That never were meant for a steady beat, I've had many a job for a little while, I've been on the bum and I've lived in style; And there was the road, stretchin' mile after mile, And nothing to do but go. Author unknown The above verse was one of many published in "The Hobo In Song And Story."
The Hobo I will long remember when the hoboes came around. They walked along the railroad tracks and slept upon the ground. They'd stop at certain houses, 'tis said they marked the gate, to beg a bite. If you were lucky, they would work for what they ate. If Dad was home, they'd sit awhile. Now, many tales I've heard about their many journeys, believing every word. 'Twas usually a tale of woe; no family to care if they wore ragged clothing and never cut their hair. Yes, they had many stories why they'd taken to the trail. But, they kept a watch for lawmen, for vagrants got thrown in jail. Altho' they lived along the road, they didn't look too unclean. (Tho I recall once Mom shampooed us kids with kerosene.) There was one drifter who'd stop by our gate, year after year. We couldn't help but wonder 'bout him, when one Fall he didn't appear. It's been a long time since a hobo wandered down our lane. But he's back there in my mem'ry near the whistle of the train. - Lillian Arnold Lopez "Pineylore"
Hobo, hobo...where did you come from? A nineteenth century children's song.
Tramp, tramp, tramp keep on trampin Nothing doin here for you If I catch you round again You will wear the ball and chain Keep on trampin that's the best thing you can do. Traditional Hobo Verse.
Granddad I want to be a hobo That's what I want to do Help me if you can, when I get to be a man I want to be a hobo too. Traditional Hobo Verse.
Early every morning the shefiff comes around He gives us rotten herring that weighs a quarter pound. With coffee like tobacco juice and bread that's hard and stale. And that is the way they fed us boes in Cecil County Jail. Bill Quirke, Hobo.
I stood on the corner and almost but my head. I couldn't earn enough money to buy me a loaf of bread. The tough lick has struck me and the rats is sleeping in my hat. Blind Lemon Jefferson.
You wonder why I'm a hobo and sleep in a ditch. Well, it's not because I'm lazy, I just don't want to be rich....... No I could be a banker it I wanted to be. But the thought of an iron cage is too suggestive to me. Now I could be a broker without the slghtest excuse. But loot at 1929 and tell me what's the use? Traditional Hobo Verse.
I crept with lice that stayed for spite I froze in "jungles" more than can be said, doogs tore my clothes, and in a woeful plight At many a back door for my food I pled Until I wished to God that I was dead... On every side the world was all my foe Threatening me with jibe and jeer and chains Hard benches, cells, and woe on endless woe And yet that life was sweet for all its pains. Harry Kemp, Hobo Poet.
Where is My Wandering Brat Tonight! Where is my wandering boy tonight? The boy of his mother's pride. Oh, he's counting the ties with a bed on his back. Or else he is dinging a ride. He's on the head of a cattle train, lady That's where y're brat is tonight. His heart may be pure as the morning dew. But his togs are a slight to see. If he's nailed for a vag (vagarant), his plea won't do. "Sixty day," said the judge, "you see." Oh, where is my boy tonight? Oh, where is my boy tonight? The chilly wind blows, to the hoosegow he goes. That's where you brat is tonight! An old Hobo ballad.
Hallelujah, I'm a Bum Oh why don't you work Like other men do. How the hell can I work When there's no work to do? Hallelujah, I'm a bum. Hallelujah, bum again Hallelujah, give us a handout To revive us again.
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"A-No.1 At Rest At Last" Copyright by Grahamqckr 2001 http://www.angelfire.com/folk/famoustramp/index.html
