I am a curate you can tell by looking at my face.
A Bishop mother says I'll be, so she calls me 'Your Grace'.
I fear that in my younger days I've been a trifle 'hot',
And though I never sowed wild oats I've reaped an awful lot.
Oh, dear brethren, oh,
O Yea, I've been naughty, I know
Of things I've witnessed I shall tell,
And you must say: 'Tut, tut, well well,
He must be on the road to ruin'
Woa, dear brethren, Woa.

I visited a Music Hall to witness a Revue -
The title was 'Please do not touch' and it was touching too.
One pretty maiden in distress, appealed direct to me,
Requesting me to take her to her home 'in Tennessee.'
Oh, dear brethren, oh
With friends she stood in a row,
Those friends were to my great distress,
Attired in costumes - more or less -
Much less than more I must confess,
Go, dear brethren, go.

I often longed to 'do my bit,' I thought it would be sweet,
By in-flu-ence I got a post, as Chaplain in the Fleet.
They sent me to a Naval Base, where I held forth with glee,
But I was told to my dismay, that I must go to sea.
Oh, dear brethren, oh,
I took a service I know,
But when the ship got under weigh,
I said 'Dear Brothers, let us pray,'
The only prayer that I could say - was,
Oh, dear brethren, oh

Each year we have a sale of work, we raffle things as well,
The Vicar much deplores these things, he thinks they're quite - a 'sell'
(a little jest on my part)
Last year we had a 'lucky dip', I had sixpennyworth,
And gave my prize to Miss Wimbush, the dearest girl on earth.
Oh, dear brethren, oh,
The contents I didn't know.
The ladies came up in a shoal,
Whilst the parcel did unroll,
It was, I'm told - a camisole-
Oh, dear brethren, oh.

I thought I'd buy some poultry once, and see if I could rear
Some chickens which would lay some eggs, the price of which is dear.
I made a chicken run myself, from some of our old pews,
And bought some hens from Mr. Green, who keeps the local mews,
Oh, dear brethren, oh,
I was 'mis-laid' I know.
I felt upset and quite forlorn,
Those hens all treated me with scorn,
For they did nothing else next morn,
But - crow, dear brethren, crow.

For many months I've been in love, Miss Wimbush is her name,
Her front name's Sophonisba, and she sets my heart aflame.
Her father's language I regret, was something to deplore,
He said he'd see me somewhere hot, on one point I feel sore.
Oh, dear brethren, oh,
He breeds 'bow-wows' I know.
He greeted me with quite a frown,
His bulldog chased me through the town,
My movements now when sitting down,
Are slow, dear brethren, slow.
Written and composed by Graham Squiers & Fred Cecil - 1921
Performed by Jack Pleasants (1874-1924)
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