A memorial in town for those who died in wars , especially The Accrington Pals.
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Smoky town where they were born,
Down in the valley, smoky little streets.
They were pals from childhood days,
Climbing trees and running through the fields.
And they all played together through the turning of the years,
Sharing their laughter, sharing all their fears.
Seasons saw them growing and
Seasons passing turned them round
With the turning, turning, turning years -
The Accrington Pals.
Schooldays’ end the lads all went
To work, some spinning, some weaving in the sheds,
On the land or down the pit,
Working hard to earn their daily bread.
And they all went walking up old Pendle Hill,
On Sundays the larks sang high above the dales.
Little Willie Riley played his mandolin and sang,
They were laughing, they were singing then -
The Accrington Pals.
1916 came the call,
“We need more lads to battle with the Hun.
Lads of Lancashire, heed the call,
With God on our side, the battle will soon be won.”
So they all came marching to the beating of the drums,
Down from the fields and factories they come,
Smiling at the girls who
Came to see them on their way.
They were marching, marching, marching away -
The Accrington Pals.
Blue sky shining on a perfect day,
A lark was singing, high above the Somme.
Brothers, pals and fathers lay
Watching that sweet bird sing in the quiet of the dawn.
And they all went walking out towards the howling guns,
Talking and laughing, calmly walking on,
Believing in the lies that
Left them dying in the mud,
And they’re lying, lying, lying still -
The Accrington Pals.
Smoky town which heard the news,
Down in the valley, smoky little streets.
Houses quiet and curtains pulled,
All round the town a silent shroud of grief.
And the larks were singing still above old Pendle Hill,
The wind was in the bracken and the sun was shining still.
A lark was singing sweetly as
The evening fell upon the Somme.
