The Manchester Rambler Lyrics

I've camped out on Crowden, Rambled on Snowdon Slept by the Wainstones as well. I've sunbathed on Kinder, been burnt to a cinder And many's the tale I can tell. Me rucksack has oft been my pillow Heather has oft been my bed. But, sooner than part from these mountains I love, Well I think I would rather be dead. There's pleasure in dragging the peat bogs, and bragging, Of all the the fine walks that you know. There's even a measure of some kind of pleasure, In wading through ten feet of snow. Well I've seen the white hare on the heather, The curlew fly high overhead. But, sooner than part from these mountains I love, Well, I think I would rather be dead. CHORUS Nothing changes, It all stays the same, They're selling the moorland for profit and gain. They've sold all the rivers, bought all the rain, And you can't go up there there, you're disturbing the game... Cod's roe, Caviar, Milk Stout and Champagne, Gold cards and Dole cards, but, never the twain, That's the game, That's their game.............. Nothing changes, It all stays the same. So, I'll go where I will over mountain and hill, And I'll lie where the bracken lies deep. I belong to these mountains, these clear crystal fountains, Where the rocks they stand rugged and steep. Well, I've stood on the edge of the Downfall, Seen all the valleys outspread. No man has the right to own these mountains I love, Anymore than the wide ocean bed... Repeat CHORUS...