Mow Cop Poetry

Supreme in majesty he stands
Minus feet, or legs, or hands,
Where for centuries he has stood -
Tis said, at time he wears a hood.

He sees out west the Cheshire Plain
Where fertile soil gives golden grain.
He sees stern things this southern way,
Where art – and bread – are wrought from clay.

He sees a striving, thrifty people,
And many a distant spire and steeple;
Sees pottery ovens, a pall of smoke,
And maybe murmers, "Poor old Stoke".

At times he looks directly down
Upon his neighbour, Kidsgrove Town,
And thinks of what there used to be
When Kidsgrove hummed with industry.

He saw befall the cruel stroke
Which robbed tall chimneys of their smoke,
Which took the work, the town’s life blood –
The tragedy of Birchenwood-
And, mourning then, he donned his hood.

Councillor J.W. Challinor. 1933.