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 wor done and she put it in t'oven,
She said to 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!