candidates for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week, Openair love and religion’s reform, (Chorus) And religious reform. Hideous in form. Arrah, why, says you, couldn’t he manage it? I’ll go bail, my fine dairyman darling. Like the regular redshank I am. I’m seeing rayingbogeys rings round me. Honours to you on my raisins, if I have? Who said you’re to