The Travelling Man

I wish I was a travelling man,
With hoary hands and a leathery tan,
With all my world upon my back
In a great big, rolled up, hessian sack.

I would walk down leafy country lanes,
And it wouldn't matter if it rains,
For I'd find a field and I'd pitch my tent
And be dry whatever the heavens sent.

And on sandy shores on summer nights,
I'd sit before a campfire bright,
Cooking supper up in a copper pot,
And I'd thank the Lord for what I've got.

And I'd see the dew at the break of day,
And I'd see the stars going on their way,
And I'd feel the seasons ebb and flow,
Like the tide, as on my way I'd go.

Oh, I wish I was a travelling man,
With hoary hands and a leathery tan,
With the whole world waiting at my feet,
And nowhere to go and no one to meet.

And I'd see the dew at the break of day,
And I'd see the stars going on their way,
And I'd feel the seasons ebb and flow,
Like the tide, as on my way I'd go.