Is the poet essentially vagrant?

I've been reading George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London for comfort in these gloomy, doomy times. The parallels between poets and tramps struck me - idle wanderings being the primary occupation of both; absence of wages the shared predicament. The Irish tradition has a strong itinerant identification. I thought of Beckett's tramps and then Patrick Kavanagh's Memory of my Father, a favourite poem at school.

Every old man I see
Reminds me of my father
When he had fallen in love with death
One time when sheaves were gathered.

That man I saw in Gardner Street
Stumble on the kerb was one,
He stared at me half-eyed,
I might have been his son.

And I remember the musician
Faltering over his fiddle
In Bayswater, London,
He too set me a riddle.

Every old man I see
In October-coloured weather
Seems to say to me:
'I was once your father.'

Kavanagh's sentiment may evoke a Christian sensibility but an earlier bardic poet, David O' Bruadair, who fell to tramping (thanks to the Cromwellian invasions) packs more of a punch:

Our priests are scarred with
      greed and pride,
and all our poets are cut down
      to size:
but worst of all I realise
that no one poor is considered
    wise.

Blast you, world, you sneaky
     bitch
may our guts and liver in
     agony split!
What's it to you if I become
     rich?
What's it to you if your children
    slip?

The once-proud men of this land
    have swapped
giving for gaining, music for
   crap:
no tunes on the pipes, no music
   on harps -
We ourselves have buried the
   summer at last.

 Written by a tramp in Ireland around 1690 and resonant today as I travel on the Central line beneath the City of London.