Rochdale

Rochdale, where Pennine hills sigh low,
Their ancient stone a steadfast crew,
The River Roch in quiet flow,
Reflects the sky’s perpetual blue.

Here once the Pioneers did stand,
With co‑operative hope alight,
Their looms and looms of honest hand
Wove futures from the cotton night.

The market square, a bustling throng,
Where brass bands play and children run,
Old chapels keep their timeless song,
While new cafés brew the rising sun.

From Rochdale’s heart, a steady beat,
A town that walks both past and present—
A humble place where neighbours meet,
And every street tells its own excellent.