An’ my word an’ honner, it did mak a gert din, For I stud by and heard it an’ saw it cum in; I expected it cummin as quiet as a lamb, But no daat a’th’ noises wur nobbut a sham; But wat’s th’ use o’ tellin yo ha it did cum, I’d forgotten yo’d ridden to Wibsey begum. Thare wur fifty i’ number invited to dine, All us at hed acted reight loyal to th’ line; Sa I thout that I’d go, for I knew weel enuff ’At th’ puddings this time wud be made o’th’ reight stuff And noan o’ that stuffment that gav th’ Keighla band, Toan awf on it rubbish and tother awf sand. For twelve stone o’ flour (3lbs. to a man) Wur boiled i’ oud Bingleechin’s kaa lickin pan, Wi gert lumps o’ sewet at th’ cook hed put in’t, At shane like a ginney just new aat o’th’ mint; Wi nives made a purpos to cut it i’ rowls, An’ th’ sauce wur i’ buckets, an mighty big bowls. They wur chattin an’ tawkin an’ sucking ther spice, An’ crackin at dainties thay thout ’at wur nice, Wal th’ oud parson gat up and pulled a long face, An’ mutter’d sum words ’at thay call sayin’ th’ grace, But I niver goam’d that, cos I knew for a fact It wur nobbut a signal for th’ puddin attack. And I’ll tell yo wat, folk, tho yo maint beleeve, But yo tawk abaat Wibsey folk heytin horse beef, Yo sud a seen Locker taaners brandishin’ thair nives, An’ choppin and cuttin thair wallopin shives, An’ all on em shaating thay liked th’ puddin th’ best, For nowt wur like th’ puddin for standin the test. And while thay wur cuttin an’ choppin away, The gallant Spring-headers wur order’d to play, But thay didn’t much like it for every one Wur flaid at thay’d play wal th’ puddin wur done; But as luck wur they ticed em, wi a gert deal to do, To play Roger the plowman and Rozzen the Bow. Hasumiver thay played an’ thay drummed up agean, An’ th’ drummer he struck wi his might and his mane, An’ I’m like to confess I wur niver war flaid, For thay put such a stress on to all ’at thay played, But I kept mysel quiet, cos I knew’t wur a sin, To stop such grand music, if th’ roof tumbled in. Ike Ouden wur chairman at com to preside, An’ Will Thompson o’ Guiseley wur set by his side; Na Will’s a director o’th’ Midland line, An’ as dacent a chap as sat daan ta dine, Along wi Jim Sugden at held the vice chair, Wur one Billy Brayshaw, Bradford Lord Mayor. Thare wur Jonathan Craven, Mic Morrell and me, And a lot more lads at wur on fur a spree; Thare wur Nedwin o’ George’s and Pete Featherstone, They sat side by side like Darby and Joan! An’ I hardly can tell yo, but yor noan to a shade, But I knaw thay wur Ingham and little Jack Wade.