The banjo player

HERE is music in me,
the music of a peasant people.
I wander through the levee,
picking my banjo
and singing my songs
of the cabin and the field.
At the Last Chance Saloon
I am as welcome as the violets in March;
there is always food and drink for me there,
and the dimes of those who love honest music.
Behind the railroad tracks
the little children clap their hands
and love me as they love Kris Kringle.
But I fear that I am a failure.
Last night a woman called me a troubadour.

What is a troubadour?