They were 10 foot tall and they spoke for the bog.
Three brothers made of muck and moss and rarely-spotted moths
They roamed from Clougher to Pendle, by Parlick and Tarnbrook

Fording the Hodder and the Wyre, their clomping boots were never dry.
Good Lancashire rain followed them from dale to fell like loyal hounds
And drizzled cheerfully through their meandering moots.

Then the peat was drained and the heather burned.
The Bog Men, the damp trampers of Lancashire, dried out,
They turned to stone, dry stone, unqueched even by Lancashire rain.

You’ll see them now on Clougher’s northern slopes
In their final moot, now mute, now bone-dry stone,
Though some old crones of Lancashire still tell, that one day, if bog and peat return to all the high fells of Bowland, the three damp trampers will roam these moors once more.