It's tough to be an alto
when you're singing in the choir.
The
sopranos get the twiddly bits
the people all admire.
The basses boom like
loud trombones,
the tenors shout with glee -
But the alto part is on two
notes
or (if you're lucky) three.
And when we sing an anthem
and we
lift our hearts in praises
the men get all the juicy bits
and telling
little phrases.
Of course the trebles sing the tune -
they always come
off best;
the altos only get three notes
and twenty-two bars rest.
We
practice very hard each week
from the hymn-book and the psalter,
but when
the conductor looks at us our
voices start to falter.
"Too high!" "Too
low!" "Too fast!"
"You held that note too long!"
It doesn't matter what
you do -
it's certain to be wrong!
O shed a tear for the altos
-
they're martyrs and they know,
in the ranks of choral
singers
they're considered very low.
They are so very 'umble
and a lot
of folks forget 'em;
how they'd love to be sopranos,
but their vocal
chords won't let 'em!
And when the final trumpet sounds
and we are wafted
higher,
sopranos, tenors, bases -
they'll be in the heavenly
choir.
And while they sing "Alleluia!"
to celestial flats and
sharps,
the altos will be occupied
polishing the harps.
Author unknown
Composed by 'Bob the Organist' whose real identity has never been revealed. The poem was discovered stuffed behind the vestry door of a church in Sutton Coldfield in the West Midlands.
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