written by Weston and Lee 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 of pudden, But not Yorkshire pudden... nay nay! The real Yorkshire pudden's a dream 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 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. The owd woman looking at clock said, 'By Gum! He's due home from mill is my Dan, You get on wi' ye tea, but you must excuse me, I must make pudden now for t' owd man. Then the angel jumped up and said, 'Gimme the bowl... Flour and watter and eggs, salt an' all, And I'll show thee how we make puddens in Heaven, For Peter and Thomas and Paul'. So 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 then it wor done and she put it in t' oven She said 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 buxum 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.
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