Lancashire Lantern: Lancashire Poetry Index

Part of the Lancashire Lantern network, an index to authors, first lines and titles of Lancashire poetry in books held within libraries in Lancashire, including the Lancashire Authors’ Association collection. The index provides details of the book in which a particular poem may be found and also a link through to the library catalogue to give the locations of the required volume.

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A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

Records 1001 to 1110 of 1110

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Wind frets the low peninsula

Wind of the West, winging out through the luminous dark of the South

Wind rattles the frame

Windows strike me

Winds of the Pennines fresh and free

Winds! gentle summer winds! sportive and free

Wings against the hillside that morning in the past

Winking headlands dowsed by dawn

Winter had not surrendered

Winter is a time

Winter is cold

Winter kills them off, old dog, old people

Winter time will soon be here

Winter would be worst, I thought, its wild storms

Winter's Ruthless Horsemen ride

Winter's wind is cold, is cold

Wisdom whispers in all ages

Wiser is it to bear with life on earth

With a good steak in my pocket

With a sigh and puzzled frown

With 'All in the April evening', choir voices set the scene

With all the day in front of me

With an angry wing, and an awful wail

With black funeral robe, and tresses shorn

With bright and happy greetings

With dancing feet, in glad sequence

With eager and with gladsome hearts on this auspicious day

With eyes of blue, I come to you

With eyes unfocused, deep in thought

With fading blue sky-line, stage set for the ball

With gladness we great thee, the goddess of morning

With half-shut eyes and dreamy flood of hair

With happy radiance rose this April morn

With her hair flowing wildly

With his ears badly blistered and practic'ly drunk

With his full rights restored, the Duke returns

With infinite patience and toil to develop

With joy men are blooming, in life's autumn gloaming

With khaki everywhere

With looks majestic and mild

With love from Jack

With loving thoughts of me

With mistletoe, box and holly

With modest blush each other meet

With noiseless feet and stately pace

With noiseless pace

With oak and birch high on an ancient beach

With old traditions all around us dying

With 'Onward! Christian soldiers'

With other toys put on display

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children

With saddened heart I think of all the past

With scents of honeysuckle, lily fumes

With slime and slum all gathered round

With snowflakes falling on the ground

With staff in hand, the hunter stood

With stammering lips and insufficient sound

With such grace and ease

With tattered maps I sat at rest

With that, she sang a low, sweet melody

With the hand of God on my shoulder

With the lark in the early morning, I rise, and away, away

With Tommy Atkins on the land

With tuneful strains my simple lines infuse

With wanton hand a blossom fair

With what unutterable shame and scorn

Within a car I sat beside

Within a cot down yon hill-side

Within a cottage, sheltered by a wood

Within a quiet homestead far away

Within an olden church I know

Within the Abbey church the tapers glow

Within the confines of yon rural space

Within the Palatine of Lancaster

Within the tavern fronting down the lane

Within the upper storey of a mill

Within this little book

Within ye northe contre

Within, the hearth from blazing fire aglow

Without you every morning would be like going back to work

Wi've this owd fam'ly album in t' cupboard

Wod a pleashur id is

Wod are tha' talking about, mon

Wod did Ah iver hev wi yo

Wod meks a fella tew an' slave

Wod meks tha sit so quate, to-neet?

Wod! part wi Carlo - never, he's too good to be ill-used

Wodever i'th' world mon aw do wi' eawr Tum?

Wodsoe'er thi task be

Woe betide the evil eye

Woefully the wild wind

Woman! what is she? or what should she be

Wor Geordy and Bob Johnson byeth lay i' one bed

Words are dancing in my head

Words full of meaning and painfully true

Work co's Capital id naybur

Work, work, work

Workers on the picket line

Workin' away fro' youth to owd age

Workless and weary of waiting we stand

World-shaking wars have thundered o'er the main

Wot's this 'ere place called Canada?

Would ye view a bonny lass

Would you credit, brothers mine!

Would you hear a wild tale of adventure

Would you like to come wi' me

Wraiths are we who roam a strand

Wrapped up in vision, strange sights I saw

Write on and let your pen flow

Wulfstan, the old sea-rover

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