Yorkshire Puddin (a monologue)

By R P Weston and Bert Lee 1940

Ay waitress, escuse me a minute , now listen,
I’m not finding fault but ere miss,
taties is gradeley – beef is reet
But wot kind of puddin is this

Wot, Yorkshire puddin, no – cum cum – CUM CUM
wot Yorkshire puddin tha say
It’s puddin I grant thee – its some sort of puddin,
It’s not Yorkshire puddin nay nay

Real Yorkshire puddin’s a poem in batter
To make one’s an art not a trade,
Now listen to me I’m going to tell thee
how first Yorkshire puddin were made

A young Angel on furlough from ‘eaven
Cum flying above Malham moor
and this Angel poor thing got a cramp in a wing
and cum down at old woman’s door

Old woman said “ee its an Angel,
I’m reet suprised to see thee
i’ve not met an Angel before but tha’s welcome
Cum in, ave a nice cup o tea

Angel said “ee thank thee kindly I will”
She had two or three cups o tea
three or four sally lunns, a couple of buns
Angels eat lightly tha see

T’old woman lookin at clock said by gum!
ee’s due back from fields is me Dan
Enjoy thee tea, tha must excuse me
I must make puddin for me old man

Then Angel said gimmee tha bowl
flour, watter, eggs, salt an all
I’ll show thee how we makes puddins in eaven
for Peter,Thomas and Paul

Old woman give er things
and Angel pushed back er wings and said “ush”
Then she tenderley tickled mixture wi spoon
like an artist would paint with a brush

Aye she mixed that puddin wth heavenly magic,
she played with spoon in dough
like Paderewski plays t’piano
or Kressler would twiddle is bow

An when she’d done she put it in t’oven
and said t’old woman ” goodbye”
And flew away leaving first Yorkshire puddin
that ever were made – and thats why

It melts in mouth like snow in sunshine
As light a 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 puddin that makes yorkshire lasses
so buxom and broad in t’ips
It’s real yorkshire puddin that makes yorkshire cricketers
win county championships

It’s real yorkshire puddin that gives me dreams
of a real paradise up above,
were at last trump, i’ll queue for a lump
of real yorkshire puddin I love

And there on a cloud away from t’crowd
In a real paradise not a dud un
I’ll do nowt for ever an ever
but gollop up real yorkshire puddin

Sorry but I couldn’t resist this, kindly supplied by Brian Jackson, Malham