SPECTATOR COMPETITION No. 72

Report by John Usborne A prize of f'S was offered for an old English teacher's Poem of Revolt on " doing" either " The Lady of Shalott" or " A Mid- summer Night's Dream" for the forty-second time. Parody required. The competitors clearly enjoyed composing almost as much as I have enjoyed reading and judging their entries. In fact I enjoyed them so much that the less I say about them, and the more of them that are quoted either in part or in full on this page, the better. May I, however, say that since parody was required, and parody of either " The Dream " or "Shalott " doubtlessly implied, I had to dis- qualify many whose skill in the tasks they had set themselves I greatly admired. Some admirable Poems of Revolt were not revolting enough ; perhaps only those who have suffered. . . . Of course far more parodists stayed to look down to Camelot than passed onward to Athens, but Athenian standards, as is proper, were higher, though fewer.

LINES OF LOATHING : And as my pupils come and go They'd be surprised indeed to know I've loathed for forty years or so The Lady of Shalott. (Mrs. V. R. Ormerod.) On either side of the classroom spread Young heads of feather or of lead, And I, ah fainer were I dead Than hear monotonously read By graceless lump or clammy clot That ambling pad of jingling.rhymes, Now after two-and-forty times More cloying than ambrosial limes The Lady of Shalott. (R. J. P. Hewison.) To think I'd drag another form about That cursed wood, patch up the wall for Snout, Again wire fairies' skirts and Bottom's ears. Those stupid lovers' tiffs bore me to tears. (Olive Wilson.) FRAGMENT OF REVOLT: So, Headmaster, take this warning: I shall quit tomorrow morning, All arrears of salary scorning, One by one my chattels pawning— Deus avertat Camelot ! Free from scholarly ambition,. I shall live without contrition, Whilst consigning to perdition The Lady of Shalott !

Nom OF IRONY : Watch the metre, mark the stresses, Note the sibilant caresses And the rhythmical excesses— Though the stuff my soul oppresses I must make them cram a lot.

(C. J. Richards.)

Four drab walls observe me gleaning Every subtlest shade of meaning From that female so chagrining, The Lady of Shalott. - (IL A. C. Evans.) Prizes: £2 to V. B. Young ; £1 each to P. M., Nan Wishart, and Allan M. Laing. (Unfortunately only room for the first. two.) FIRST PRIZE (V. B. YOUNG)

I thought it once a thing sublime This pointless and pedestrian rhyme, But, " done " the forty-second time

With notes and schoolboy comments, I'm

Afraid it doesn't seem so hot.

I've talked about its mystery, Its putative topography, Tennyson and his prosody

And what he got from Mallory,

And answered questions patiently

(All right, I know that's more than three.

She's put her beastly curse on me, The Lady of Shalott.)

They ask " Hovi did it work, that mirror? " sa

" Why did the sap sing tirra lirra? " "Can barges really go by river From Guildford down to Camelot? " " I'm not surprised they, called the dame Elaine the Blank, but all the same That long-haired Lancelot was to blame." "Sir, how d'you think' she wrote her name?

With pencil, pen or what? "

Year after year and line by line It's murdered by the philistine, Whom I, with all his works, consign

To a worse place than Camelot. And that same verse I loved of yore Delights my soul no longer, nor Can I feel aught but loathing for That sickening, pale, neurotic bore,

The 1.4dy of Shalott.

SECOND PRIZE (P. M.) Where the bee sucks no more I'll be a sucker

Fairies, skip hence—I hope you come a mucker !

You may reknit these hempen homespuns here And hang a sock on every cowslip's ear.

No more I'll drag the Leaving Cert. and Higher Thorough bush, thorough brier.

Puck can go put a girdle round his neck • For I've touched Bottom finally—a wreck. Lord, what mortal fools we teachers be ! I know a Bank where there's a vacancy And no one turns the Dream we once enjoyed Into recurring nightmares fit for Freud.

Midsummer madness. We must bend the knee Before the edicts of the Min. of E.

Seeing we pensioners be.

Fill up the glass then, swallow down the pill— Here's to our English Heritage, and Will !- Jack still has his gill.