Yorkshire pudden

Hi waitress, excuse me a minute, now listen,

I'm not finding fault, but here, Miss,

The 'taters' look gradely - the beef is a' reet,

But what kind of pudden is this?

It's what? - Yorkshire pudden! now coom coom coom coom,

It's what! Yorkshire pudden d'ye say!

It's pudden I'll grant you - it's some sort o' pudden,

But not Yorkshire pudden, nay nay!

The real Yorkshire pudden's a poem in batter,

To make one's an art, not a trade;

Now listen to me - for I'm going to tell thee

How t'first Yorkshire pudden wor made.

A young angel on furlough from Heaven

Came flying above Ilkley Moor,

And this angel, poor thing - got cramp in her wing

And coom down at auld woman's door.

The ould woman smiled and said 'Ee, it's an angel,

Well I am surprised to see thee.

I've not seen an angel before but thou'rt welcome,

I'll make thee a nice cup o' tea.'

The angel said 'Ee, thank you kindly, I will.'

Well she had two or three cups of tea,

Three or four Sally Lunns, and a couple of buns -

Angels eat very lightly, you see.

T'owd woman, looking at clock, said 'By Gum!

He's due home from mill is my Dan.

You get on wi' ye tea, but ye must excuse me,

I must make pudden now for t'owd man.'

Then the angel jumped up and said 'Gimme your bowl -

Flour and t'watter and eggs, salt and all,

And I'll show thee how we make puddens in Heaven,

For Peter and Thomas and Paul.'

Then t'owd woman gave her the things, and the angel

Just pushed back her wings and said 'Hush!'

Then she tenderly tickled the mixture wi' t'spoon

Like an artist would paint with his brush.

Aye, she mixed up that pudden with Heavenly magic,

She played with her spoon on that dough

Just like Paderewski would play the piano,

Or Kreisler, now deceased, would twiddle his bow.

And when it wor done and she put it in t'oven,

She said to t'owd woman 'Goodbye'.

Then she flew away, leaving the first Yorkshire pudden

That ever was made - and that's why

It melts in the mouth, like the snow in the sunshine,

As light as a maiden's first kiss;

As soft as the fluff on the breast of a dove,

Not elephant's leather, like this!

It's real Yorkshire pudden that makes Yorkshire lassies

So buxom and broad in the hips.

It's real Yorkshire pudden that makes Yorkshire cricketers

Win County championships.

It's real Yorkshire pudden that gives me my dreams

Of a real Paradise up above,

Where at the last trump I'll queue up for a lump

Of the real Yorkshire pudden I love!

And there on a cloud - far away from the crowd,

In a real Paradise, not a 'dud' 'un -

I'll do nowt for ever and ever and ever

But gollup up real Yorkshire pudden!