Sic Transit . . .

SPECTATOR COMPETITION No. 377 Report by Blossom •

The usual prizes were offered for a set of verses (not exceeding a dozen' lines) suitable for publi- cation on May 24 (Empire Day).

HERE the ghost of Kipling has tiptoed, walked, lumbered, crept and even battled for its spectral existence. That just about sums up your many moods. Some were for, some against, and one or two of the more diplomatic veterans picked the delicate path between. In actual numbers pseudo-Victorianism won the day; entries in this group were well salted with `thy,' thou' and an `o'er' or two for good measure. At the other end of the scale the Empire appeared in the shape of most permutations of the isles of Man, Skye, Wight, Dogs, Scillies and a rather monotonous

• repetition of Rockall. Somewhere on the fringe came the humorists and, although they made very heavy weather of the whole business, I preferred their entries to those that seem to have been spawned during advanced stages of maudlinism. I came to the final conclusion that there was no poet-laureate in our midst. Perhaps it was just as well—the best entries were all about the same standard and it does make judging a little easier —anyway I enjoyed reading everything. (Thinks . . . I wonder where Ha--sh-m gets to on these occasions?) I quote Alberick's opening lines— good meaty stuff this—I wish he could have kept it up : Now are the first fruits of our fathers' sowing Golden with promise of the harvest home.

D. R. Peddy was well up among the funny- men; his approach was first-rate (but even this could not offset two or three awkward word sequences): May Twenty-four is a day some deplore, for its links with an age that was golden, When tanned manly figures consorted with niggers, to whom they were not yet beholden.

. Rhoda Tuck Pook was Queen of the Islands and even now I wonder if the Man, Skye, Wight,

etc., entries were discarded a little too casually. Here is her final verse : Rachel, go weep; thy children are no more. Unless some fate the locust-years restore, Must thou at last, of all thy best bereft, Discover that thou hast but Scillies left?

W. K. Holmes almost had a couple of guineas right in his pocket. It was his restraint that at- tracted me—why on earth did he not restrain himself to a dozen lines! Just see how close he came :

Come, let us pluck a humble reed And to a whistle trim; Such instrument is all we need Our Empire's pride to hymn.

You will kindly stand to attention whilst the fol- lowing receive commendation in addition to those already mentioned : H. A. C. Evans, Eddie C. and P. W. R. Foot. The twenty-one gun salute and a little money goes to : J. A. Lindon, R. A. McKenzie and Gloria Prince, a guinea and a half each; R. F. Pechey, one guinea; half a guinea to J. P. Mullarky just for the devil of it.

PRIZES

(J. A. LINDON)

Where is our Empire? The children have gone from their Mother; Humbled our Empire of vanity, battles and boasts; Crumbled and vanished away as full many another Empire of ghosts.

Yet deep in the soul of an Englishman linger undying Songs that are not of the sword, of the flag or the fool; Wrongs to be righted in regions where voices are crying; Let the heart rule!

This is our Empire on which the sun ever rises,

Born of that Empire on which the sun has set;

Torn from its red womb of Glory and glittering

prizes : Our Empire yet.

(11. A. MCKENZIE) I sometimes feel I'd rather crow About the Empire than to boost Our Commonwealth. But I dunno. Our Empire wasn't a good show, But, golly, how it ruled the roost! I wish it wasn't so reduced.

Perhaps it isn't. I dunno.

Perhaps I'd better boost it though. And yet it isn't what it used To be some forty years ago. But then are any of us so?

And how does that help? 1 dunno.

(GLORIA PRINCE) For God's sake, let us huddle on the floor And sort this muddle of unhappy things : Of territories lost in foolish war,

Bled white for gain, or held in apron-strings

Till grown resentful of their foster-land : All gone for good; for in that hollow phrase, The British Empire, there did ever stand A martial pomp in airy crown, with gaze More empty than the crow-picked sockets gaunt At midnight underneath the gallows-tree, And lingers on a feeble ghost to haunt The fallen arches of old sovereignty.

(a. F. PECHEY)

How mighty is that nation, And shall be mightier yet, Whose stones of sure foundation, Within her homes are set : Her hope shall never perish,

Her glory never remove,

Whose sons and daughters cherish Their home and country's love.

(J. P. MULLARKY)

God Bless our Commonwealth Relations And keep them in their proper stations.