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 O we knew the woods, all 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
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