The Dubliners — The Manchester Rambler

I've been over Snowdon I've slept up on Crowdown I've camped by the Winston's as well I've sun bathed on Kinder Been burned to a cinder And many more things I can tell My rucksack has oft' been my pillow The heather has oft' been my bed And sooner than part from the mountains I think I would rather be dead I'm a rambler, I'm a rambler From Manchester way I get all my pleasure the hard moorland way I may be a wage-slave on Monday But I am a free man on Sunday The day was just ending As I was descending Near Grindsbrook just by Upper-Tore When a voice cried, "Hey You" In the way keepers do He'd the worst face that I ever saw The things that he cried were unpleasant I the teeth of his fury I said Sooner then part from the mountains I think I would rather be dead I'm a rambler, I'm a rambler From Manchester way I get all my pleasure the hard moorland way I may be a wage-slave on Monday But I am a free man on Sunday He called me a louse And said think of the grouse Well, I thought but I still couldn't see Why old Kinder scout And the moors round about Couldn't take both the poor grouse and me He said all this land is my masters At that I stood shaking my head No man has the right to own mountains Any more than the deep ocean bed I'm a rambler, I'm a rambler From Manchester way I get all my pleasure the hard moorland way I may be a wage-slave on Monday But I am a free man on Sunday I once loved a maid A spot-welder by trade She was fair as the rowan in bloom And the bloom of her eyes Mocked the June moorland sky And I loved here from April to June On the day that we should have been married I went for a ramble instead For sooner than part from the mountains I think I would rather be dead I'm a rambler, I'm a rambler From Manchester way I get all my pleasure the hard moorland way I may be a wage-slave on Monday But I am a free man on Sunday So I'll walk were I will Over mountain and hill And I lie where the bracken is deep I belong to the mountains The clear running fountains Where the grey rock rise rucked and steep I've seen the white hale in the gully And the curlew flies high over head And sooner than part from the mountains I think I would rather be dead I'm a rambler, I'm a rambler From Manchester way I get all my pleasure the hard moorland way I may be a wage-slave on Monday But I am a free man on Sunday