The Lancashire hills stand towering high,
Their summits are tinged with gold;
The valleys are clothed with rich living green,
Their beauties can never be told.
As we speed on the rail, - imposing sight!
We may look at the clear sparkling rills,
Then turn our eyes upward, there to behold
The beautiful Lancashire hills.
The scenery’s grand, beyond all compare,
But ‘tis sad to behold those num’rous mills
All standing in silence, deserted, and lone,
At the foot of these beautiful hills.
Ah! when will the better times come, my poor boys?
When again may you go to the mills?
So merry and gay, you will then wend your way,
To your work near the beautiful hills.
In gratitude then your voices you’ll raise,
Whilst working you are at the mills,
With joy and delight you’ll smile at the sight,
Of the beautiful Lancashire hills.
May this good time draw near, and banish all fear,
When you’ll haste with delight to the mills;
Then, oh, with what joy the Lancashire boy
Will climb up these beautiful hills.
The hearts of their parents will likewise be glad –
They also will haste to the mills;
They’ll view with delight the glorious sight
Of the beautiful Lancashire hills.
Oh hasten the time thou Giver of good!
Supply thy poor people with bread;
All, all are thy workmanship – merciful Lord,
Let them by bounty be fed.
Burnley July 30th