Freeborn Man

I am a freeborn man of the traveling people,
Got no fixed abode, with nomads I am numbered,
Country lanes and byways were always my ways,
Never fancied being lumbered.
I knew all the woods and the resting places,
And the small birds sang when winter days were over,
Then along the road with my mighty load,
They were good old days for the rover.
There were many spots where a man could linger,
For a week or two when time was not his master,
Then away I’d jog with my horse and dog,
Nice and easy, no need to go faster.
Come all you freeborn men of the traveling people,
Come every tinker, rolling stone or gypsy rover,
Winds of change are blowing, old ways are going,
Your rambling days will soon be over.