How t'first Yorkshire Puddin wer made

Hi Waiter! Excuse me a minute,
Nah listen I'm not findin fault, but dear me,
The taties are lovely ...the beef is alreight...
But what sort o' puddin is this?

It's what?! Yorkshire Puddin? Nah come come come
It's what?! Yorkshire Puddin yer say?
Oh, it's puddin Ah grant yer (some sort o' puddin)
But not YORKSHIRE puddin, nay nay!

The real Yorkshire puddin is a poem in batter,
To make one's an art, not a trade.
Listen to me for Ahm goin to tell yer
How t'first Yorkshire puddin were made.

A young angel on furlough from Heavan
Came flyin above Ilkley Moor,
An th'angel, poor thing, got cramp in her wing,
An cam down at t'owd woman's doar.

Th'owd woman smiled an said "Ee, it's an angel!
Well, Ahm surprised to see thee!
Ah've not seen an angel before, but th'art welcome,
Ah'll mek thee a nice cup an tea!"

Th'angel said, "Ee, thank yer kindly, Ah will."
So they 'ad two o' three cups o' tea,
Three o' four Sally Luns, an' a couple o' buns.
(Angels eat varry lightly, yer see!)

Then th'owd woman looked at the clock an said
"By gum, he's due 'ome from t'mill is my Dan.
You ger on wi yer tea, lass, but yer must excuse me,
Ah must mek t'puddin nah fer t'owd man.

The th'angel jumped up an said:
"Give mi a bowl, flour, watter, eggs, salt an all,
An Ah'll show thee how wi mek puddins in Heaven
For Thomas an Peter an Paul."

Th'owd woman gave her all o' t'things
An th'angel guest pushed back her wings an said "Hush!"
Then she tenderly tickled t'mixture wi t'spoon,
Like an artist would paint wi a brush.

She mixed up that puddin wi Heavenly magic.
She played wi her spoon on that dough...
Like Paderowski would play t'piano,
Or Kriesler would twiddle his bow.

An th'owd woman whispered, "Ah reckon, dear Angel,
T'clouds that Ah see in t'sky,
So fleecy an foamy, it's batter for puddins
For th'angels' dinner on high!

"It's mixed wi t'rain, an it's stirred wi t'rainbow,
An baked in the beautiful sun."
An th'angel kept stirrin, an smiled as she answered:
"An when a star drops, then it's done.

"But jokin apart..." said th'angel,
"The secret o'puddins, made here or above,
Is not in the flour and the watter, but when mixin it,
See that yer mix it wi love."

An when it wer done, she popped it in th'oven
An said ter th'owd woman: "Goodbye!"
Then off she flew, leavin t'first Yorkshire Puddin
That ivver wer made, and that's why:

It melts in yer mouth like snow in the glove,
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!