I'm a freeborn man of the travelling people
Got no fixed address  with nomads I am numbered.
Country lanes and byways were always my ways.
I never fancied being lumbered.

Oh we knew the woods and the resting places,
And the small birds sang when winter times were over,
Then you'd pack your load and be on the road
They were good old times for a rover.

There was open ground where a man could linger,
Stay 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

Now and then you'd meet up with other travellers,
Hear the news and swap family information.
At the country fairs we'd be meeting there
With the people of the travelling nation.

Oh. I've ken't life hard and I've ken't it easy,
And I've cursed the time when winter down was coming,
And I've danced and sang all the whole night long,
Seen the summer sunrise in the morning.

All you freeborn men of the travelling people,
Every tinker, rolling stone and gypsy rover -
Winds of change are blowing, old ways are going
Your travelling days will soon be over.