Eh waiter, excuse me a minute
I'm not findin' fault, but dear me
'taties is lovely and beef is alreit
But what sort of pudding can this be?
It's what? Yorkshire Puddin'? Now cum cum cum cum
It's Yorkshire Puddin' yer say?
I'll grant yer it's some sort o' puddin', owd lad
But not THE Yorkshire Puddin', nay, nay.
Now reit Yorkshire Puddin's a poem in batter,
T'mek it's an art, not a trade
So just listen t' me and I'll tell t' thee
How t' first Yorkshire puddin' were made
A young angel wi day off from 'eaven,
Were flyin' abaht Ilkla Moor,
When t' angel, poor thing, got cramp in a wing
An' cum down at an owd women's door
. T' owd woman said "Eee - it's an angel.
By 'eck, I'm fair capped to see thee.
I've noan seen yan afore - but tha's welcome,
Come on in, an' I'll mash thi some tea."
T' angel said, "By gum, thank you kindly."
Though she only supped one mug o' tea,
She et two drippin' slices and one Sally Lunn.
Angel's eat very lightly yer see.
Then t'owd woman looked at clock sayin'
"Ey up, t'owd feller's back soon from t'mill.
You gerron wi' yer tea, but please excuse me,
As I'll atter mek puddin' fer Bill."
Then t' angel jumped up and said gie us it 'ere,
Flour, water, eggs, salt an' all,
An' I'll show thee 'ow we meks puddins,
Up in 'eaven for Saints Peter and Paul.
So t' angel took bowl and stuck a wing in,
Stirring it round, whispering "Hush"
An' she tenderly ticked at t'mixture,
Like an artist ed paint wi a brush.
Then t'owd woman asked " 'ere wor is it then,
T'secret o' puddins made up above?"
"It's nowt i' flour or watta, said t'angel,
"Just mek sure that tha meks it wi' luv."
When it were done , she popped it i' t'oven,
"Gie it nobbut ten minutes", she said.
Then off t'angel flew, leavin' first Yorkshire Puddin',
That ivver were properly med.
An' that why it melts in yer gob just like snow.
An' as light as a maiden's first kiss,
An' as soft as the fluff on t'breast of a puff,
Not ELEPHANT'S LEATHER like this.
Good luck with the dialect!
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