Industry born on a larger scale, once rose amid the rolling moors.

Grand designs of brick and glass and skyward fingers of chimney stacks

forged a landscape of mills and hills from the minds of men, never still .

Dreams drawn out on a spinning mule, fuelled by coal and driven by steam

wound a million lives round a cotton spool and made this Britain Great,

long before our Gracie wished us luck as she waved us goodbye.

 

Now Gracie’s voice is quiet at last and memories live in the grace that’s left

Though the mills now stilled nestle mid the hills, the minds of men dreaming still

covet heritage lest it should be lost from  beloved remains of muck and brass.

The harnessed power of dragon’s breath, once doused now awake to roar again

gasping steam up to an industrial sky, pistons shush and the great wheel flies

preserved in stately gold and green, the apple of steam enthusiasts’ eye.

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