Traveling the Green Road

I first saw him standing there smiling, beguiling
His countenance at peace, his presence out of place
Wearing an old woolen great coat tattered and worn
You couldn't call him a hobo, homeless or a bum
He appeared distinguished, and striking in appearance.
I saw no musical instrument yet he seemed a minstrel.
I approached him, curiosity coursing through my mind
I said, "Pray thee Sir how does the world know you?"
He opened his mouth to speak, I heard an Irish lilt
I smelled the heather and heard the music of Erin
He looked through me and said, "I am the wanderer.
The roaming vagabond, the wayfarer, the Irish gypsy!"
I saw neither bedroll nor baggage in the vicinity.
So I inquired politely, "Pray Sir where doth thou stay?"
Still smiling, he spread his arms open wide and turned.
Then bringing forth from his pocket he showed a book
A well-worn book covered in leather with gilded pages
I had to squint to read the words hand written within :

"These words are my own,
they are and will be mine alone
So please of them take care,
when with you I choose to share
For these words are my comfort,
to me they're of great import
They let me travel where I may,
These words are my hideaway"