It’s the land of the brave, of the brash and the bold,
It is of course the North, with its rain and its cold.
But no matter the chill, you will don your big coat,
To venture into that world, about which you gloat.

It’s very much the land of the most haute cuisine,
With food so sophistiqué, you’ll lick your plate clean.
Everything with gravy, butter pies in their scores,
Enough Wigan butties to solve every world war.

It’s the land of Preston, of Blackpool and Blackburn,
And when we are parted, my heart truly does yearn.
But comfort can be found in a single red rose;
The symbol of my county, soothing all my woes.

It’s the land of grit, of vigour and the hearty,
We will not be downtrodden by the Tory party.
We’re proud as punch to say that we’re from Lancashire,
But you’ll not catch us near godforsaken Yorkshire.

It’s the land of the question: “would you like a brew?”,
The answer is always “yes”, no doubt through and through.
You will never find a place with a pint so cheap,
You drink your sweet concoction, as Southerners weep.

It’s the land of the proud, unashamed and mighty,
But paying a fiver for chips? Not bloody likely.
We’ve many a funny word, like ginnel and scran,
But mock us all you like; time waits for no man.

No soul can deny, to Lancashire we’re devout,
But please, as you leave, do turn the big light out.

Featured image: ‘St Patrick’s Chapel’ Joe Hayhurst on Flickr.