Ewan MacColl – The Manchester Rambler Chords

I’ve been over Snowdon, I’ve slept upon Crowdon
I’ve camped by the Waynestones as well
I’ve sunbathed on Kinder, been burned to a cinder
And many more things I can tell
My rucksack has oft been me pillow, The heather has oft been me 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 me 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 and I was descending
Down Grinesbrook just by Upper Tor
When a voice cried “Hey you” in the way keepers do
He’d the worst face that ever I saw
The things that he said were un-pleasant, In the teeth of his fury I said
“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 me 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 all Kinder Scout and the moors roundabout
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 own mountains, Any more than the deep ocean bed

I’m a rambler, I’m a rambler from Manchester way
I get all me 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 eye matched the blue Moreland sky
I wooed her from April to June
On the day that we should have been married, I went for a ramble in-stead
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 me 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 where I will over mountain and hill, and I’ll lie where the bracken is deep
I belong to the mountains, the clear running fountains
Where the grey rocks lie ragged and steep
I’ve seen the white hare in the gullys, And the curlew fly high overhead
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 me pleasure the hard moorland way
I may be a wage-slave on Monday
But I am a free man on Sunday

I’m a rambler, I’m a rambler from Manchester way
I get all me pleasure the hard moorland way
I may be a wage slave on Monday
But I am a free man on Sunday