I remember a long
time ago when I was young,
they used to be great bands
of tinkers
or gypsies would come through our place
and it always seemed to me
the most romantic possible
kind of a life.
You know the caravans,
or the caravans
with the horses heads painted on the side,
and the old characters leaning over the
half door of it with the pipe,
and a clatter of dogs
running along under the wagons.
Fifteen or twenty piebald ponies behind,
you know.
A friend of ours wrote a song about it,
the passing of the romantic age
of the travelling people.
It's called I'm a Freeborn Man
of the Travelling People.
I'm a freeborn man
of the travelling people.
Got no fixed abode
with the nomads I have wondered.
Country lanes and byways
were always my ways.
I never fancied being number.
Oh, we knew the woods
and the resting places
And the small birds sang
when winter days were over
Then we'd pack our load
and be on the road
Those were good old days for a rover
There was open ground
where a man could linger
For a week or two per time
was not our master
Then away you jog,
row in your horse and dog
And nice and easy,
no need to go fasting
Now I've known life hard
and I've known it easy
And I've cursed the life
when winter days were darning
But I've laughed and sung
through the whole night long
Seen the summer sun rise in the morning
All you free -born men,
all the traveling people
Every tinker,
rolling stone and gypsy rover
Winds of change are blowing,
old ways are going,
your traveling days will soon be over.