The Rambler

The rambler mounts the wooden stile,
His aching legs are smarting
As he begins the final mile
On the path towards South Harting.

Give him the romance of walking!
It’s the refreshing outdoor life –
Away from the endless talking
Of the ever-scolding wife.

A chance to drink, a chance to scoff –
It’ll be dinner a la carte,
And then to bed to snore it off
Upstairs in the old White Hart.

Tomorrow he heads for Cocking
Passing Heyshott along the Way,
Fourteen miles of heavy walking –
He’ll feel he’s earned his pay.

Pundits say it’s good for you
To take to footpaths and to roam,
But non-stop rain just soaks him through –
He wishes he’d stayed at home…