It’s well and truly summer here, and we can tell by the size of the choir. We’re not a large choir in term-time, but we’ve halved in size since the students went home. When we came into the choir room on Sunday, the precocious alto looked at us, did the maths and said, ‘we are officially the Trinity Choir.’
‘Yes,’ we said, ‘in every sense of the word.’
The sometimes-tenor then entered and completed our set. In light of this we’ve been driven to that poem we’ve been threatening to write for months. It comes from a place of great affection, and sympathy for diminished choirs the world over, because after all, three’s a choir -isn’t it?
Six Little Choristers
Six little choristers, sit cantores side,
One collided with the organ, leaving only five.
Five little choristers censed by the thurifer,
Asphyxiation by incense reduced them to four.
Four little choristers waiting in the vestry,
One fell out of procession and then there were three.
Three little choristers uncertain what to do,
One fled from sentimental motets then there were two
Two little choristers led Solemn Evensong,
One thought it much too catholic, and then there was one.
One gloomy chorister with conductor does conspire,
To halt music for the summer as one is not a choir.