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‘n Kleuterrympie wat ‘n studenteliedjie geword het, draai in my kop terwyl ek mymer oor outydse kerkbasaars wat al hoe meer deur allerlei “feesmarkte” op die agtergrond gedruk word. Die vetkoek, kerrie en rys, pannekoek en basaarpoeding speel tweede viool. Voor in die koor is die slimmighede om teen jou mure te hang en ander snuisterye.
Die boerebasaar is dood, helaas – vermoor soos Cock Robin (met wonderlike uitsonderings soos ons buurdorpie Philadelphia). Vraag in my gemoed is: Wie het die kerkbasaar vermoor?
Dalk is ek net bevooroordeeld. Hopelik laat Melkbos se feesmark die rande rol. Ons gemeente het dit broodnodig. Kom, kopers, kom!
Vir wat dit werd is, so het ons Kollegemanne op Tuks gesing in die jare 60:
“Who killed Cock Robin?” “I,” said the Sparrow, “With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin.” “Who saw him die?” “I,” said the Fly, “With my little eye, I saw him die.” “Who caught his blood?” “I,” said the Fish, “With my little dish, I caught his blood.” “Who’ll make the shroud?” “I,” said the Beetle, “With my thread and needle, I’ll make the shroud.” “Who’ll dig his grave?” “I,” said the Owl, “With my pick and shovel, I’ll dig his grave.” “Who’ll be the parson?” “I,” said the Rook, “With my little book, I’ll be the parson.” “Who’ll be the clerk?” “I,” said the Lark, “If it’s not in the dark, I’ll be the clerk.” “Who’ll carry the link?” “I,” said the Linnet, “I’ll fetch it in a minute, I’ll carry the link.” “Who’ll be chief mourner?” “I,” said the Dove, “I mourn for my love, I’ll be chief mourner.” “Who’ll carry the coffin?” “I,” said the Kite, “If it’s not through the night, I’ll carry the coffin.” “Who’ll bear the pall? “We,” said the Wren, “Both the cock and the hen, we’ll bear the pall.” “Who’ll sing a psalm?” “I,” said the Thrush, “As she sat on a bush, I’ll sing a psalm.” “Who’ll toll the bell?” “I,” said the bull, “Because I can pull, I’ll toll the bell.” All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing, When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin
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