Eric Braysford, Oswaldtwistle
Rising steeply out of Clitheroe,
like a giant above the town,
Lies a massive bulk, an incredible hulk,
a fell of some renown.
Adored by man since time began,
revered to this day still,
The highest ground for miles around,
that’s known as Pendle Hill.
Your top spies south, o’er cotton towns,
the chimneys, and the mills,
In bleak terrain, the Pennine chain,
the east horizon fills.
To the western side, the plain of Fylde,
the Irish sea beyond,
Then looking north, your slopes sweep forth
to Ribblesdale, and Bowland.
For seven long miles you spread yourself,
like a sleeping lion, they say.
Your fellside bare, wild moorland where,
the lark and lapwing play.
But when you’re kissed by swirling mist,
you cast a different spell.
If you could speak, thou noble peak,
what stories you could tell.
Of mystery, and sorcery, come every
The only night that magic flight
of witches, can be seen.
A jet black cape, a broomstick shape
across the spooky moon.
The cold wind flits among the grits,
and plays an eerie tune.
Yet all those fears will melt away,
when morning greets the Sun.
Once more you’ll stand, so proud and grand,
the way you’ve always done.
You’ve stole the hearts around these parts;
our lives with joy you fill.
A silent friend, right to the end,
that’s dear old Pendle Hill.