SPECTATOR COMPETITION No. 43

Report by R. Kennard Davis

By the year 3950 English has become a dead language and detaili of its pronunciation have been lost ; but the composition of rhymed English verse is practised in schools and colleges. A prize poem in English opens with the lines : The feast was spread with luscious fruits, With wines and cakes and sweet biscuits.

A prize of £5 was offered for a continuation of this poem.

I must begin by apologising for an ambiguity in the wording of the instructions, which left several competitors in doubt whether the limit for their work was ten lines or twelve. I did not disqualify anyone who contributed twelve original lines, though, as will be seen, the prizes happen to go to competitors who confined them- selves to ten.

My main feeling, apart from amusement, as I read the gross or so of entries, was regret that so much wit and ingenuity must go unrewarded and even unrecorded. I hope that the authors enjoyed writing their verses as much as I enjoyed reading them! There were a great many brilliant false rhymes (sedately—philately; sabre— macabre ; Porto Rico—Pimlico ; seas—Boreas). The " feast " was variously identified as the banquet in Macbeth, the wedding feast disturbed by Young Lochinvar, Belshazzar's feast, and (by one daring competitor) Christmas Day in the Workhouse. My chief problem was to decide how much credit to award for feats of rhyming, and how much for plausible narrative, metrical correctness and similar qualities.

A considerable number of very promising sets of verse came from boys and girls of school age. Some of these stated their age ; in other cases I inferred it from the superior legibility of their writing! Perhaps the Editor might consider setting aside a com- petition some day for the under eighteens.

I recommend that two pounds each be awarded to Rhoda Tuck Pook and Mrs. Mary Garden, and one pound to Colonel J. S. Barnes. Excellent entries came from Captain C. P. Goodden, Rev. H. M. Hyde-Lees, Nan Wishart, Guy Kendall (who, I thought, rather over- stepped the limit in rhyming Bordeaux with dukes!) and Mrs. V. R. Ormerod.

'Couplets that particularly pleased me:— Among the guests was Lady Agnes,

Who much enjoyed the choice champagnes.

Aunt Prue reposed upon a couch She brought from Ashby-de-la-Zouch.

For vegetarians, spinach Was heralded by strains from Bach While others shared a dish of tripe Made from a famous chef's recipe.

• As up the stair so ste€p and spiral There climbs a general and admiral, • And after them, in scarlet pants, Two handsome young li-eu-tenants.

Such a feast had not been matched Since Cwsar dined on Pompey's yacht By apricots in cream enisled Even a saint may thus be misled.

"Not bad, this Show," he mildly notes ; (He's English, and he likes litotes) Though someone called them indiscreet. And others too, too decollete, It was a very lovely fete.

And water, too, from wholesome spas, Combine to make a merry Xmas!

FIRST PRIZES

(RHODA TUCK POOK)

The feast was spread with luscious fruits,

With wines and cakes and sweet biscuits.

Champagne, which those who drink but tea View with a passionate nausea As threatening more ghastly fates Than the fell hemlock of Socrates.

The gleaming silver speaks to some Of luxury in epitome,' While While bright as amethystine stones There shines a bowl of anemones.

.The banquet ends—the vision fades ; Return we to our rationed Hades.

(MARY GARDEN)

The feast was spread with luscious fruits, With wines and cakes and sweet biscuits, While here and there stood cups of mead Between the plates of oaten bread. The new-made Queen is seated now Amid her guests both high and low. But see—Macbeth in fearful mood! Now what doth freeze his royal blood ? Oh stricken conscience! Peace is lost! For there, enthroned, sits Banquo's ghost. Cursed be the witches of the heath That prompted gentle Duncan's death!

SECOND PRIZE

(COL. J. S. BAINES)

The feast was spread with luscious fruits, With wines and cakes and sweet biscuits, In vain. Ice froze in the conduits,

Cold as a tomb.

Oft here the Bad Laird of Ballater Had quaffed his brandy without water, The while his tender-weeping mater His hair would comb.

Now, hated still for many a league, No more his daughters would he plague; He lay, with ne'er one quiver of ague, Dead by a bomb.