The Manchester Rambler

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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've been o'er the Snowdon, I've slept upon Crowden

I've camped by the Wain Stones as well

I've sunbaked on Kinder, been burnt 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

The day was just ending as I was descending

By Grindsbrook, just by Upper Tor

When a voice cried, Eh you, in the way keepers do

He'd the worst face that ever I saw

The things that he said were unpleasant

In the teeth of his fury I said

Sooner than part from the mountains

I think I would rather be dead

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 master's

At that I stood shaking my head

No man has the right to all mountains

Any more than the deep ocean bed

I once loved a maid, a spot-welder by trade

She was fair as the rowan in bloom

And the blue of her eye matched the June moorland sky

And I wooed her 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

So I walk where 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 rocks rise rugged and steep

I've seen the white hare in the gulley

And the curlew fly high over head

And sooner than part from the mountains

I think I would rather be dead

The Leaving of Liverpool

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I am bound for California by way of stormy Cape Horn And I will write to thee a letter, love, when I am homeward bound  I've shipped on a Yankee clipper ship, "Davy Crockett" is her name And Burgess is the captain of her and they say that she's a floating hell  I have sailed with Burgess once before, I think I know him well If a man's a sailor he will get along, if not then he's sure in hell  Farewell to Lower Frederick Street, Anson Terrace and Park Lane I am bound away for to leave you and I'll never see you again

The Irish Rover

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On the fourth of July eighteen hundred and six

We set sail from the sweet cove of Cork

We were sailing away with a cargo of bricks

For the grand city hall in New York

'Twas a wonderful craft, she was rigged fore-and-aft

And oh, how the wild winds drove her.

She'd got several blasts, she'd twenty-seven masts

And we called her the Irish Rover.

We had one million bales of the best Sligo rags

We had two million barrels of stones

We had three million sides of old blind horses hides,

We had four million barrels of bones.

We had five million hogs, we had six million dogs,

Seven million barrels of porter.

We had eight million bails of old nanny goats' tails,

In the hold of the Irish Rover.

There was awl Mickey Coote who played hard on his flute

When the ladies lined up for his set

He was tootin' with skill for each sparkling quadrille

Though the dancers were fluther'd and bet

With his sparse witty talk he was cock of the walk

As he rolled the dames under and over

They all knew at a glance when he took up his stance

And he sailed in the Irish Rover

There was Barney McGee from the banks of the Lee,

There was Hogan from County Tyrone

There was Jimmy McGurk who was scarred stiff of work

And a man from Westmeath called Malone

There was Slugger O'Toole who was drunk as a rule

And fighting Bill Tracey from Dover

And your man Mick McCann from the banks of the Bann

Was the skipper of the Irish Rover

We had sailed seven years when the measles broke out

And the ship lost it's way in a fog.

And that whale of the crew was reduced down to two,

Just meself and the captain's old dog.

Then the ship struck a rock, oh Lord what a shock

The bulkhead was turned right over

Turned nine times around, and the poor dog was drowned

I'm the last of the Irish Rover

The Fields of Athenry

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By a lonely prison wall

I heard a young girl calling

"Michael they are taking you away

For you stole Travellyn´s corn

so that the young might see the morn´

Now the prison ship lies waiting in the bay"

Low lie the fields of Athenry

Where once we watched

the small free birds fly

Our love was on the wing

we had dreams and songs to sing

It´s so lonely ´round the fields of Athenry

By a lonely prison wall

I heard a young man calling

"Nothing matters, Mary,

when you´re free

Against the famine and the Crown

I rebelled, they ran me down

Now you must raise our child with dignity"

Low lie the fields of Athenry

Where once we watched

the small free birds fly

Our love was on the wing

we had dreams and songs to sing

It´s so lonely ´round the fields of Athenry

By a lonely harbour wall

she watched the last star falling

While the prison ship

sailed out against the sky

Sure she wait and hope and pray

for her love in Botany Bay

It´s so lonely round the fields of Athenry