I'm a freeborn man of the traveling people Got no fixed abode, of nomads I am numbered Country lanes and byways were always my ways I never fancied being lumbered
I know all the woods, and the resting places Sure I cursed the life when winter days were dawning And I'd pack me load and be on the road They were good old days for the rover
Come all ye freeborn men of the traveling people Be ye tinker, rolling stone, or gypsy rover Winds of change are blowing, old ways are going Your rambling days will soon be over Loading comments...