When our happy Sunday School, in three big vans
Went to Chingford for the day
I felt as joyous as a frisky lamb
As I handed round the tea and jam
Everything conducted on my own nice plans
The scholars all were gay
All the teachers there, all the ladies fair
Beaming when they looked my way
But when a ramble was proposed
The teachers, male, at once, you see
Paired off with all the female ones
Alas there wasn't one for me
I raised my eyes, then murmured in surprise,

Chorus: 'Now, doesn't anybody want the curate? Poor little curate,
Ladies off you go and leave your curate, I can't endure it,
You'd be so much safer with the curate.
Those young men, you see
You should all beware of, who'll take care of poor little me.

When I saw them trot away with partners fair
And leave poor me behind
I felt sorrowful and sad, you see
'Twas too bad of them neglecting me
Nobody to pet me up, or smooth my hair
They to my charms were blind
'Why don't somebody make a fuss of me?
Really you are most unkind.'
While strolling on my 'lonesome' there
I saw a truly dreadful thing
Those teachers and their partners fair
Were playing at kiss-in-the-ring
I cried, 'Stop, stop,' then let these few words drop.

Chorus: 'Now, doesn't anybody want the curate?
Poor little curate, Ladies, if you do not kiss your curate
I can't endure it
You'd be so much happier with the curate
Those young men, you see
They don't know what bliss is, for real kisses try little me.

When the time for going home at last arrived
Into the vans they got
But those teachers they weresaucy chaps
For they sat upon the ladies laps
Such a shock! It's marvellous how I survived
It upset me a lot, I said, 'Let me see - eh, not one for me?
Most uncurteous! eh what?'
I looked into the three big vans
And felt as grieved as I could be
Ten great big hulking teachers, male
They all had got a lap but me
I said to Brown, 'Get up! Then I'll sit down.'

Chorus: Now, doesn't anybody want the curate?
Poor little curate, Ladies, if you're cruel to your curate
I can't endure it
Anybody want to nurse the curate?
Those young men, you see
I don't care a rap for! Where's a lap for
Poor little me.'
Written and composed by John P. Harrington & George Le Brunn - 1905
Performed by Vesta Tilley (1864-1952)
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