Well I've been over Snowdon, I've camped upon Crowdon,
And slept by the wayside as well,
I've sunbathed on Kinder, been burned to a cinder,
And many more tales I can tell.
A rucksack has oft been my pillow,
The heather has oft been me bed,
But 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 pleasures the hard moorland way,
I may be a work slave on Monday,
But I am a free man on Sunday.
The day was just ending when I was ascending
The guy's brooked a look up and down
When a voice cried, "Hey, you!", in the way keepers do,
He'd the worst face that ever I saw
The words that he spoke were unpleasant;
And in the teeth of his fury I said
That sooner than part from the mountains,
I think I would rather be dead"
Well I once loved a maid, a spot welder by trade,
I loved her 'til the Rowan did bloom,
And the blue of her eye matched the blue moorland skies
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 go where I will over mountain and hill
And I go where the bracken is deep
I belong to the mountains, the pure crystal fountains
Where the grey rocks lie rugged and steep
I've seen the white hare in the gulley
And the curlew fly high overhead
But sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.