THE HUNDRED OF SALFORDSHIRE

On a gusted moor with nowt but gorse and twisted hawBetwixt the clusters of coney spoor and thick, wet grass,Soldiers stood, sodden and raw with duty.

A march from the borders to Blackstone Edge, children and men, at armsSince Lent, to meet the army the White Rose sent and fight ‘til everyBreath was bent beneath its force.

Helmet shunned though piked and groaning, a phalanx of boneStumble-footed, an army of blood, a militia of gristle And nowt much else but the names they shouldered.

They’d come from Clegg and Buckley Halls, from Recedham ManorAnd Cronkey Shaw, and from Butterworth swamps they’d left the mireTo conquer the foe and bleed the moor.

From Falinge and Fieldhouse, Sudden and Syke, heavy legged menWith no work but the pike took their place beside those of Shawclough, The Fodder of Kirkholt and the Belfield Rough.

Orders were given at the Promul Gate. Men of moral girth to fight for their fate Against the sinister forces of Yorkshire That was massing its ranks out Saddleworth way.

And blood would be drained and bones would be crunched and roses stained and screams understood by the hovels in the valleys by those in their homes with no wish for more land or their lordships’ code.

And on the pods of moss amongst the grass at the ghostly moorThe soldiers stand still, armed and ready, tired and raw Beside the twisted haw within the Hundred of Salfordshire.