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1. W.C.C. Song! ........................by Anne Barry2. Practice ................................by Mark Roper
W.C.C. Song!
On a Monday at 8 in Saint Patrick's
While others all sit by the fire
We roll in from the cold of the winter
For Monday's the night of the choir, the choir...
First with ngs, ooh and ahs we get ready,
For to warm up the old vocal chords
Then we go separate ways for note bashing
And go learnin' behind the closed doors, closed doors...
The ladies - sure they have aul' softie
As she teaches them all note by note
She's with us all the way down from Malla!
And sure we all think she's an aul' dote, aul' dote...
But the boys they get crack the whip Barry
And 'tis up to the attic we go
'Til the tenors can sing like Domingo
And the basses all learn to sing low, oh...
Then 'tis time for the tea and the coffee
And we know who's learned fastest each night
'Cos 'tis they get the choice of the bickies (thanks to Anna!)
And the others plough on 'til 'tis right, 'tis right...
Then the second half puts it together
And it's first sure to all fall apart
'Til we take it all phrase by phrase slowly
And there's nights when it sure breaks my heart, my heart...
But we manage to get there eventually
And usually it's not all too bad
Sure last Friday it was only marvellous
And I was so thrilled and so glad, so glad...
Now the best things in life come in threes
But in our choir there even were four,
What a line-up of Baritones as you've ever seen
But there's one of them in every choir
And sure ours is the pest from Dunmore
Would ya look at me Crotty for God's sake !!
But he knows he's the one I adore, adore...
Now I'd hate to be hoarding the platform
And I know there's more singers to hear
So it only leaves for me to wish you
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, New Year...
Anne Barry, as sung 15 December 1998
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Tired perhaps from work early in the week across the dropping dark we gather in the church. First breathing exercise to open the lungs' doors, mee-may-mah-mow-moos to sharpen vocal claws then hard graft on the score, our voices awkward birds groping for the footwork to grip the music's perch laying down a path over shafts of breath, teaching mind and mouth to make notes by heart as if the tongue all throats being one instead of singing found itself sung as if into the air selves could disappear fuel of a choir become a single fire as if beyond poise lay a kind of grace where the human voice becomes blossoming space. Descent from height is a law of flight. Wrapped again in coats we head into the night. As the road unwinds it's back to routine. Thoughts start to churn in the mind's daft machine but in bed, close to sleep you find that mind swept, blown like a pipe by notes you can't stop
copyright c.1996 by Mark RoperTop