Makes no refusal to delay.

There will I get me home, and there

Lift up your face in my brown hand,

With all the rosy rusted hills

About the heart of that dear land.

THE VAGABONDS

"Such as wake on the night and sleep on the day, and haunt customable taverns and alehouses and routs about, and no man wot from whence they came, nor whither they go."—Old English Statute.

We are the vagabonds of time,

And rove the yellow autumn days,

When all the roads are gray with rime