Home > Work > Echoes From a Cobbled Street: Stories and Poems from the North West
1 " A Lancashire WeaverThis place might be hauntedthe ghost hunter said'Midst the dust and the grimewalk the feet of the dead.The machines now stand idleLooms clatter no moreThere's a stack of old bobbinspiled up by the door.I remember my Mamshe worked here, so she saidA Lancashire weaverbut now she is deadAlong with this milland along with the dreamsof working mill lassesand their jobs, so it seemsWe once wove the bestcotton cloth in the worldBut now that's all goneon the scrap heap been hurledThe clatter of clogson the old cobbled streetthe humdrum staccatofrom thousands of feet.Tough work and much hardshipand many a careFolks they got byfor brass, it was rarebut still we had prideBy Christ, did we ever!Will it ever come backThe answer is NEVERThis place might be hauntedthe ghost hunter said'Midst the dust and the grimewalk the feet of the dead.I'm glad that my Mamnever saw it this wayOut in all weatherscame here every dayWhen this closed downshe had already diedPerhaps just as wellShe'd have bloody well cried. "
― , Echoes From a Cobbled Street: Stories and Poems from the North West