I’m a freeborn man of the traveling people

Got no fixed abode, 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 wintertime was over

Then we’d pack our load and be on the road

They were good old times for the 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 travelers

Hear the news or else swap family information

At the country fairs, we’d be meeting there

All the people of the traveling nation.

 

All you freeborn men of the traveling people

Every tinker, rolling stone, or gypsy rover

Winds of change are blowing, old ways are going

Your traveling days will soon be over.