[WillowTheWhisp]

This was written when Sultan Street was cobbled and the Coppice was bald.

Muck'n'Mills
A young lad came t’our fair town in th’eart o’t’ Lancashire hills.

In a disillusioned tone ’e sighed “It’s nobbut muck’n’mills!”

Well it may be a bit of a mucky place but there’s green parts ’ere an’ ther

An’ most o’t’mills’ve bin pulled down tho nobody seems t’cer.



I could take yer a walk through cobbled streets, or up t’Parade t’t top.

We could climb up t’coppice if you like then just keep runnin’ till we drop.

Then lookin’ back y’d see our town, all th’ouses nesstlin’ close t’gether

An’ ther in t’fields little grey lambs, snuggled down in t’moorland heather.



That lad said ther were nowt in our town, nowt as he could love.

Well his heart can’t be owt like mine. To me it passes way above

All sorts of places, towns an’t’like as y’ear about in song.

But maybe that’s cos it’s mi ‘ome and I’ve lived ‘ere so long.