These words [bad word] by Spencer the Rover
Who traveled Great Britain and most parts of Wales
He had been so reduced, which caused great confusion
And that was the reason he went on the roam

In Yorkshire, near Rotherham, he had been on his rambles
Being weary of traveling, he sat down to rest
At the foot of yonder mountain [bad word] a clear fountain
With bread and cold water he himself did refresh

It tasted more sweeter than the gold he had wasted
More sweeter than honey and gave more content
But the thoughts of his babies, lamenting their father
Brought tears to his eyes which made him lament

The night fast approaching, to the woods he resorted
With woodbine and ivy his bed for to make
There he dreamt about sighing, lamenting and crying
Go home to your family and wandering forsake

On the fifth of november, I've a reason to remember
When first he arrived home to his family and wife
They stood so surprised, when first he arrived
To behold such a stranger once more in their sight

His children came around him with their prittle prattling stories
With their prittle prattling stories to drive care away
Now they are united, like birds of one feather
Like bees in one hive, contented they'll be

So now he is a living in his cottage contented
With woodbine and roses growing all around his door
He's as happy as those who have thousands of riches
Contented he'll stay and go a rambling no more