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I​’​m A Rambler

from Freeborn Man by Ewan MacColl & Peggy Seeger

/

about

The wild moorland country bordering Manchester, Sheffield and so many other northern industrial towns, contains some of the most spectacular countryside in Britain. The desolate reaches of Kinder Scout and Bleaklow, in particular, attract some of the hardiest outdoor-lovers. When this song was written, these two great moorlands, Kinder and Bleaklow, were still privately owned and kept exclusively as grouse-shooting preserves.

Ewan was one of the instigators of the great Mass Trespass that took place in April 1932, when thousands of hikers and walkers literally invaded the moorlands, bringing the matter to the attention of the British public and its legislators (see “Mass Trespass 1932”). The Trespass resulted in the opening of most of the disputed moorlands to the public (or, in today-speak, the ‘participants in the leisure industry’). Times have changed since the 1930s and sometimes when you survey Kinder Downfall, with its downfall of beer cans, plastic bags, cigarette butts, a soiled S.T. or condom stuffed under rocks, with its paths gashed and muddy from the onslaught of mountain bikes, hiking boots, with its tiny wild flowers trampled - you feel that you are viewing in microcosm the fate of the entire earth. You’re almost tempted to close the moorlands again and let them recover.

alternative titles: “I’m a Rambler”, “Rambler’s Song”
words and music: Ewan MacColl

lyrics

I’ve been over Snowden, I’ve slept upon Crowden,
I’ve camped by the Wain Stones as well;
I’ve sunbathed 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.

Chorus: 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 have my freedom on Sunday.

The day was just ending as I was descending
Down Grindsbrook 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 unpleasant;
In the teeth of his fury I said,
‘Sooner than part from the mountains,
I think I would rather be dead.’ (chorus)

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 own mountains
Any more than the deep ocean bed. (chorus)

I once loved a maid, a spot-welder by trade,
She was fair as the rowan in bloom,
And the blue of her eye mocked 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. (chorus)

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 rise rugged and steep.
I’ve seen the white hare in the gulleys,
And the curlew fly high overhead,
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead. (chorus)

credits

from Freeborn Man, released September 20, 1983
Ewan MacColl - vocals
Peggy Seeger - banjo, backing vocals
Calum MacColl - guitar, backing vocals
Dill Katz - bass
Ian Telfer - fiddle
Chris Taylor - harmonica
Neill MacColl - backing vocals
Kirsty MacColl - backing vocals
Hamish MacColl - backing vocals

Produced by Neill MacColl
Engineered by Nick Godwin
Recorded at Pathway Studios, London

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Ewan MacColl London, UK

This site is maintained by the MacColl family, aiming to make Ewan's catalogue available to download.
Ewan MacColl is known to most as a songwriter and singer, but he was also of significant influence in the worlds of theatre and radio broadcasting. His art reached huge numbers through the folk clubs, greater numbers through his recordings and untold millions through the radio. ... more

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