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I'm a freeborn man of the travelling people |
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got no fixed abode with nomads I am numbered |
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country lanes and bye ways were always my ways |
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I never fancied being lumbered |
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Well we knew the woods and all the resting places |
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the small birds sang when winter time was over |
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then we'd pack our load and be on the road |
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they were good old times for the rover |
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In the open ground where a man could linger |
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stay a week or two for time was not your master |
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then away you'd jog with your horse and dog |
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nice and easy no need to go faster |
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And sometimes you'd meet up with other travellers |
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hear the news or else swop family information |
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at the country fairs we'd be meeting there |
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all the people of the travelling nation |
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I've made willow creels and the heather besoms |
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And I've even done some begging and some hawkin' |
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and I've lain there spent rapped up in my tent |
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and I've listened to the old folks talking |
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All you freeborn men of the travelling people |
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every tinker rolling stone and gypsy rover |
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winds of change are blowing old ways are going |
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your travelling days will soon be over |