| I’m a freeborn man of the travelin' people;
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| Got no fixed abode, with nomads I am numbered
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| Country lanes and byways were always my ways;
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| I’ve never fancied bein' longer
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| Oh, we knew the woods and the restin' places;
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| And the small birds sang when winter days were over
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| Then we’d pack our load and be on the road
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| Those were good old days for a rover
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| There was open ground where a man could linger
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| For a week or two, for time was not our 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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| Well, I’ve known life hard and I’ve known it easy;
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| And I’ve cursed the life when winter’s days were dawning;
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| But I’ve laughed and sung through the whole night long;
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| Seen the summer sunrise in the morning
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| All you freeborn men of the travelin' people
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| Every tinker, rolling stone, or gypsy rover;
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| Winds of change are blowin', old ways are going;
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| Your travelin' days will soon be over
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| Your travelin' days will soon be over |