No. 547: The winners
Trevor Grove reports: Competitors were invited to imagine that the Eurovision Song Contest had in fact been running for rather longer than its nine dim years and to compose a British entry for any year previous to 1961, as it might have been submitted by a renowned songster of the day. We suggested that Colley Cibber, poet laureate from 1730 to 1757, and generally re- garded as the worst poet ever to hold that con- troversial post, might have been just the man for the job at the time. His fellow laureates in the same century might equally well have turned their hands to such occasional vapourising, but none of them in this case was put through his paces. In fact, the only bona fide laureate to find his way into the competition was Tennyson, recalled to his duties by B. White and T. Grif- fiths. Though Skelton received the title of laureate from both Oxford and Cambridge, his appointment as versificator regis to Henry VIII was not in fact official—even though Skelton tended tO regard it as such, vide Robin Hender- son who wins four guineas: For shame, swete mayde!
By Love betray'd, Skelton laureate, Sore disconsolate, Wayleth his fate Without thy gate; Ful heyrie and scruffye With berde longe and fluffye, Voys woful and snuffye, In hosen tyte And doublet bryte With flowres bedight, Horiblie array'd.
For shame, swete mayde!
A little harsh for the kind of flabby re- spectability that is de rigueur at these dismal jamborees. Perhaps Mrs P. K. Brown's Chaucer- ian roundel, blandly inoffensive, would do bet- ter in the qualifying rounds (four guineas):
Whan that yow ben y-comen neer to me, Y-nogh to deefen doth myn herte bete, Me thinketh hit wol braste: hit wol nat lete.
His rombling rore is liche a frenesye, Or noysy thonder-dent in tempest bete; Whan that yow ben y-comen neer to me, Y-nogh to deefen doth myn herte bete.
Alwey whan we to-geder ben, 0 ye His soun doth ever louder soun bigete, As of a tambour in myn ere, yet swete; Whan that yow ben y-comen neer to me, Y-nogh to deefen doth myn herte bete, Me thinketh hit wol braste: hit wol nat lete.
W. F. N. Watson also submitted an excellent Chaucer entry; Adam Khan chose Gay, and so did Martin Fagg, who wins four guineas : I adore you, Maggie, Aggie, Bessie, Jessie, Peggy, Ivy, Joan and Anne; And implore you, Doris, Dolly, Molly, Polly, Marjorie and sweet Suzanne; Whate'er betide, • Matilda, Chloe, Lizzie, Winnie, Katie, Jane and darling Sue; To be my bride, -Dear Jillie, Millie, Gertrude, Florence, Sarah, Shirley, Ruth and Rue.
Your slave am I, 0 Mabel, Elsie, Phoebe, Clarice, Caroline and fragrant Rosie; Until I die, Louisa, Betty, Hefty, Hattie, Barbara and blushing Posy.
(If I retail The names of every wench I've wooed and set them down in mindless rote, I cannot fail To chance upon the names of all of those who have the right to vote....)
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