COMPETITION

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Queen solicits Queen

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1828 you were told that Oscar Wilde, as editor of Woman's World, once asked Queen Vic- toria for any early verses of hers which he might publish. You were invited to supply both the Queen's verses and Oscar's reply.

Wilde's letter has disappeared, but Vic- toria's minute, preserved in the archives at Windsor and dated 1888, survives: 'Really, what will people not say and invent. Never could the Queen in her whole life write one line of poetry serious or comic or make a rhyme ever. This is therefore all invention and myth.' Oscar was more fortunate with Princess Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, who promised to write for his magazine. Come on, Fergie — Hello! is ready.

The prizewinners, printed below, get £20 each, and the bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to Keith Norman.

The Fall of Lord Rolle, Coronation Day, June 1838 Mindful of naught save homage to his Queen, And burdened by the weight of four score years, The good Lord Rolle appeared upon the scene With trembling foot, amid the assembled peers. Upon the topmost step we saw him sway, As one about to swoon from summer heat, And move as one uncertain of his way, Uncertain of the ground beneath his feet. He took one step, and then we saw him fall And tumble to the stony floor, poor soul! Now in our dreams we cannot but recall How down, from step to step, Lord Rolle did roll.

Let his reward be everlasting fame For proving thus so worthy of his name.

* * * * *

Victorious Victoria wins renown.

A laurel wreath now crowns the royal crown!

(Keith Norman) You must wake and call me early, call me early. Mother dear, Tomorrow's Coronation Day, and how the crowds will cheer, The crown of England will be placed upon my youthful head,

And then, Princess no longer, I shall be a Queen instead,

And then I'll marry Albert, just as soon as soon can be -

P11 have to pop the question, since he can't propose to me.

We'll have lots of little Princes, and, of course, Princesses too,

And live happy ever after in a fairy-tale come true.

We trust this little verse of ours will please you, Mr Wilde; We showed it once to Albert, our late husband, and he smiled.

* * * * *

Who needs a Tennyson? You are our Laureate, Crowned by the Muse from your earliest days. I'm at a loss, Ma'am, How best to thank you: I'll send you a ticket for one of my plays.

(Stanley J. Sharpless) A monarch leads a lonely life, Weighed down by cares of state. I must be empress, mother, wife: A triply cruel fate. I'd rather be a simple crone Within some rural hovel Than poised upon my gilded throne While lords and ladies grovel.

* * * * * Believe me, Ma'am, I feel the smart Of your affecting plight.

Like darts, your verse has stung my heart, Like vitriol, my sight.

Oh be assured, this loyal friend Can never smile again, Knowing the sentiments you've penned, Sharing your regal pain.

(Basil Ransome-Davies) Dear Albert! So broad-shouldered, tall and grand! So man-of-the-world! So kind, so gay!

So natural, yet so forme!

So fit to claim a young imperial hand!

His pretty mouth, his whiskers oh-so-slight, His blue eyes, his exquisite nose, His elegant mustachios My maiden realm of sense have vanquished quite!

Skilful to dance, to hunt, to ride, to shoot, To sing with me and good Lablache Or fondly pet my playful Dash - And press, one day perhaps, a royal suit? * * * * These youthful lines, Ma'am, from your Sovereign heart My dumb-struck admiration move;

I hesitate but to approve

Their greater art as truth, or truth as art.

(Philip Dacre) Called from our bed, handed the reins of State, We wept a little, then assumed the great Imperial Office thrust on us by Fate.

But we'd as lief have lived our life Not as Ind Imp, Fid Def, DG, But doting Mother, loving Wife, `Mein Liebling, Vicki-Vee'.

But this was not to be.

* * * * The hand that wields the sceptre plies the pen With quite affecting touches now and then; I fancy I might not have been a failure Handling the Orb (given the right Regalia).

(Gerald Benson)