| I am 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 byways were always my ways
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| I never fancied being lumbered
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| Oh I knew the woods and the resting places
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| And the small birds sang when winterdays 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 times for a rover
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| Now I’ve known life hard and I’ve know it easy
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| And I’ve cursed the life when winter days were dawning
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| But we’ve laughed and sang through the whole night long
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| Seen the summer sunrise in the morning.
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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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| 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 |