Freeborn man of the travelling people
--Ewan MacColl

I'm a freeborn man of the travelling people

got no fixed abode, with nomads I am numbered

Country lanes and byways were often my ways

I never fancied being humbled

 

Oh we knew the woods and the resting places

and the small birds sang when wintertime was over

Then we'd pack our load and be on the road

those were good old days for the rover

 

In the open fields you could stop and linger

for a week or two, for time was not your master

Then away you'd jog with your horse and dog

nice and easy, no need to go faster

 

And sometimes we'd meet up with other people

hear the news and exchange family information

At the country fairs, we'd be meeting there

all the people of the travelling nation

 

I've made willow creels and heather beasons

and I've even done some begging and some hawking

And I've laid there spent, wrapped up in my tent

and I've listened to the old folks talking

 

So come all you men of the travelling people

every tinker, rolling stone, or gypsy rover

Winds of change are blowing, old ways are going

your travelling days will soon be over