Pennines, bleak and cold,

Scarps of grit stone, grim and bold,

Harbouring bog moors, remote and forlorn,

Cauldron, where grey winds are born.

See the falling rain curtain close behind the crag,

See the steaming cloud veil cover the hills in clag,

See the drifting hail column sweep across the lake,

See the swirling snow storm of the vale forsake.

With mists hiding all its colour and shape

Oh how the sullen moor broods,

But behold and love the Pennine landscape,

For all its moods.