Wanderer

Who is this who walks the roads? An old man, tall and gray
One of his eyes is gone. The other looks far away
He’s leaning on a walking stick. It’s very long; it’s very thick
His steps are slow, his eye is quick
On this cold, foggy day

Always be kind to travelers, wandering near or far
Always be kind to travelers; you don’t know who they are

The old man knocking at the door asks if you’ll be kind
Two crows in the sky circle close behind
Give him a cup of what you’ve got: beer that’s cold, or coffee hot
A bowl of stew if you’ve a pot, whatever you can find

Pattern’s always weaving, more than you can see
But courage, wit and kindness, strength and honesty
Can weave the pattern ’round you better than you know
Take the old man’s blessing that he’ll give before he’ll go

Who is that gone down the road? You never got his name
He never said where he’s bound, or said from where he came
What comes after, who can tell? Earthly heaven, earthly hell –
But did you treat him ill or well, then you will reap the same