17 MARCH 1990, Page 34

I. M. Ian Charleson 1949-1990

Speak Thou, Boy A' shall not tread on me!

I'll run away till I'm bigger, but then I'll fight.

Dead now, and three years junior to me, Young Charleson. Though your trade, like mine, was words, I see you in an early, one-line-part, Freckled, with pale, straight hair, Coriolanus' son.

He roared the verse with some authority (His father was Town Clerk of Haddington) Till, changing cardboard spears for wooden swords, We stabbed the prefect bastard to the heart.

One greaseball smoker, actorishly inclined, Without your talent, confidence or looks, Enjoyed your chat and cheerfully dirty mind: The stage was your ice-cream as mine is books. You played the end with dignity, they said. But not too much, I hope.

I'm sad you're dead.

John Whitworth