[David Anthony]

Write something fresh and amusing using archaic language.
The more archaisms the more brownie points, but grammatical correctness is expected.

Here are some examples:

Ode to Darkling

Hush now, hush! you darkling thrush;
I weep for Darkling Nellie---she is dead!
Stop your peeping and your cheeping
As the darkling night comes creeping,
And I'm wishing Death had darkled me instead.
The curlew calls my Nell, but Nellie can't hear well
from her deep and darkling grave beneath the clay.
Let the steeple bell keep ringing
And the mocking bird keep singing,
For it's darkle and I cannot see my way.
But I hear the angels calling as the darkling eve is falling,
And I hear the voice of Darkling Nellie Gray.
Bury me beneath the willow with my banjo for a pillow;
I will tune it up in heaven, and I'll play
"I Got Shoes" and old "Swing Low" as I did so long ago
When my Darkling's heart and mine were young and gay.
Then won't we shine and sparkle? No discouraging remark'll
Be heard, and the skies won't be darkle all day.
(Golias)


Though I compare you to a summer's day,
My passion to a fire, and youth to June,
Vowing that if you wished I'd find a way
To give you, metaphorically, the moon;
Though I may liken, dear, your golden hair
To silk or sunshine, life to autumn trees--
Beautiful, ah! but fleeting--and the fair
To roses, too soon blown upon the breeze;

Do not believe, my classic, timeless dove,
Simply because I don such dusty dress
To speak of you and me, and our sweet love,
My efforts in your name are effortless.

They say such verse comes eas'ly. 'Tisn't true!
This really is the best that I can do.
(Rose Kelleher)


Tis true my friend, the better-crafted line
Be wasted on plain speech, as pearls on swine.
What care we, if our measure be well-sprung,
What comm'ners blather in their common tongue?

But prithee, why one word? Let's go to town,
Recover goodly gems their past renown.
What matter if our whorish English chase
The geegaws of the moment? By our grace,

Each chartered street will have its wench, each bard
Reserve his wrath for knaves whose hearts are hard.
Our maidens will make haste to keep their trysts,
Our driveby shootings turn to knightly lists,

Our good olde words, like boys, will favour find,
And puffed-up windbags fart enchanted wynde.
(Mark Granier)

[Janet Kenny]

Tho’ Poets puff their fripperies and preen,
I care naught what the prating Varlets mean.
Woe to all foppish Minions who opine.
Come quaff with me a measure of good Wine.
Chant on, my Birdlings, be immortal, sing
Of Love's sweet pains. Let ardent Voices ring.
With leaden feet Doom comes each Hour more near
And soon proud Popinjays will quake in fear.
Charge up your Organs ere dear Life is spent;
Bellow with Inspiration your Intent.
Saintly and beauteous may your Off’ring be,
Let it redound in matchless Piety.
Summon the Muse and merrily adorn
Parchment and Quill to celebrate the Morn.



[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited January 24, 2007).]

[Gregory Dowling]

Janet,
This would be great - if only it had initial caps,
Gregory

[Janet Kenny]

Quite right Gregory. Initial caps it is. Avoiding them had become a habit but here they are essential.
Thanks.
Janet

[Marion Shore]

Envoy de Marion

O naughty childe of myn, ynogh of that!
Pray cast away thy baseball and thy bat,
Eke click off that televisioun,
And to thy homewirk pay attencioun.
Thou heardest me, young manne -- stint thy clap!
My tempere groweth short. Thanne cut the crap!

[Janet Kenny]

Brava Marion

[Gregory Dowling]

I thought it might be in the spirit of this thread to do a "downdating" of a contemporary classic, so here's Philip Larkin's "This Be The Verse":

Progenitors, what trials sore
They wreak on us unwittingly,
Bequeathing us their every flaw
With misplaced generosity.

But blame them not: for they in turn
Bore such a fate from their begetters,
Stiff folk ‘neath whose restraint did burn
Fierce rage at matrimonial fetters.

For woe is e’er man’s sole bequest,
Grim capital whose growth is sure.
Leave hearth and home at once, ’twere best,
And add not to the human store.


----

Original:

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

-----------------

(Tinkered with to eliminate a clumsy repetition: thanks Rose!)



[This message has been edited by Gregory Dowling (edited January 22, 2007).]

[Janet Kenny]

Marvellous Gregory!!

Janet

[Rose Kelleher]

LOL! Brilliant!

And just think - there are probably some here who actually prefer your version.

[David Anthony]

These are delightful.
Janet, you have the style in a nutshell. You might try a few more caps though (eg Muse); go the whole hog.
I love the cod Chaucer, Marion.
Gregory, that's brilliant. It could foreshadow a whole new genre of archaised contemporary verse. Anyone else care to have a go?
Best wishes,
David