The Rambler’s Lament
Now Christmas comes but once
a year,
And thank the Lord for that.
The turkeys are becoming
nervous,
And the geese are getting
fat.
For we’ve been out in all the
weathers,
Whilst walking on our rambles,
Working through the long
grass & the nettles,
And, if we have to, cutting
through the brambles.
We set off every Thursday
morning,
No matter what the wind and
rain,
To Westbrook, to Chittoe or
to Rowde
Sometimes over stiles &
sometimes down the lane.
There’s many routes that
we’ve taken,
But you know it’s really hard
to say,
Whether everywhere
we’ve been this year,
Was on proper footpaths, or
rights of way.
Past the sheep, the cows and
pigs,
And some alpacas near the
wood,
And by the time that we
return to base,
Our boots are well covered up
in mud.
But we’re only gone for a
couple of hours:
Getting back, we’re very
rarely late.
And as the last few straggle
home,
You can hear the cry go up: “Shut
The Gate!”
For we’ve beaten the parish
boundaries,
And walked for about five
miles round,
Whether turning to the left
or to the right,
And now we’re all back at the
Greyhound.
And Dennis is our fearless
leader,
And over many a field we’ve
crossed,
Trusting that he knows
where he’s going,
And there’s no chance of us getting
lost.
So as we sit here at our
Christmas meal,
All feeling rather full,
Let’s be glad that we’re not
crossing
A field that’s full of bull.
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