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 lIkIey Moor
And this angel, poor thing got cramp in her wing
And coom down at owd woman’s door.

The owd 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.

Then 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 war done and she put it in t’oven
She said t’owd woman ‘Goodbye’. The 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!