The Hundred Of Salfordshire

THE HUNDRED OF SALFORDSHIRE On a gusted moor with nowt but gorse and twisted haw Betwixt 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 arms Since Lent, to meet the army the White Rose sent and fight ‘til every Breath was bent beneath its force. Helmet shunned though piked and groaning, a phalanx of bone Stumble-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 Manor And Cronkey Shaw, and from Butterworth swamps they’d left the mire To conquer the foe and bleed the moor. From Falinge and Fieldhouse, Sudden and Syke, heavy legged men With 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 moor The soldiers stand still, armed and ready, tired and raw Beside the twisted haw within the Hundred of Salfordshire.