Lancashire From The Hills

There is a glow of sunset down The wet rut and the gleaming lane, And runlet fresh with rain. And there, beyond the bare trees seen, Over the hillside's shoulder brown And furrows flushed with springing green, Lo, pomp of hiving factory, thriving town, Under the purple reek sun-kissed with fire, The throbbing heart of England, - Lancashire! These for thy glory and dower, (O land that sent me forth!) Strength and purpose and power, Thronging shire of the North! Thine to speak the English word, Not spoken low, nor faintly heard, Nor paltering weakly, fearfully, With the might God giveth thee, - The wind of a mighty people speaking sure Speaking the speech of Empire more and more; - O not thine the rural beauties That to fairer shires belong, But thine the lordlier destiny, Rugged, resolute, stern and free, The wider end, the mightier duties, O living, strenuous, strong!