Campfire Songs
Run by the Retired Scouter.

Retired Scouter Campfire Songs 


Manchester Rambler


I've been over Snowdon
I've slept up on Crowdon,
I've camped by the Wain Stones as well
I've sunbathed on Kinder,
Been burnt to a cinder,
And many more things I could tell.
My rucksac 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 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
As I was descending,
By Grimesbrook just by Upper Tor,
When a voice cried "Hey you"
In a way Keepers do,
He'd the worst face that I ever 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

Well he called me a louse,
And he said "Mind the grouse",
And I tried but still couldn't see.
Why on Kinder scout,
And the moors roundabout,
Wasn't room for the poor grouse and me.
He said all these lands were his
masters
At this I stood shaking my head,
No man has a claim to the mountains
No 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,
Matched the June moorland sky,
And I wooed her from April to June.
On the day that I 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
There's pleasure in dragging,
Through peat bogs and bragging,
Of all kinds of walks that you know.
There's even a measure,
Of some kind of pleasure,
In wadding through three feet of snow.
I've stood on the edge of the down-fore
And seen all the valley outspread,
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead.

CHORUS

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 gully
And the curlew fly high overhead,
And sooner than part from the mountains
I think I would rather be dead

CHORUS