[Jayne Osborn]

Ah, now this is better than Tweeting. Many of us love the annual bouts-rimés competition, so good luck with this one

Jayne

COMPETITION NO 173
by Tessa Castro

So it’s back to dear old verse, and time for this year’s bouts-rimés. A poem of 16 lines, please, using as rhymes these words in order: trader, seas, nadir, these, haggard, hurled, staggered, world, tarnished, away, garnished, they, eaten, regard, sweeten, nard.

Entries to ‘Competition No 173’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), fax (020 7436 8804) or email comps@theoldie.co.uk by 7th February 2014.

[Roger Slater]

The source.

[John Whitworth]

Well done Roger. I thought it would be around 1900, thought maybe Kipling.

Well, this goes with a swing. A bit short on meaning perhaps and I'm not sure if gob-gore isn't over the top. But bloodstains are boring, don't you think?

The Song of Silver's Ghost

I am a Deaths-Head trader
And I sail the seven seas,
From the zenith to the nadir,
Seeking destinies like these.

Here the hooded Harpies haggard
Hang where hurricanoes hurled,
Here swart Satan stamped and staggered
In the morning of the world,

Here the Sleepers, never tarnished,
Snore their seeling nights away,
Here am I, with gob-gore garnished,
As ineffable as they.

Who the asphodel has eaten,
Ever stands in high regard.
Him the ocean breezes sweeten,
Breathing cassia, balm and nard.

[basil ransome-davies]

Originally Posted by Roger Slater

The source.

Housman, eh? What a little ray of sunshine he was.

[Rob Stuart]

Not a patch on John's, but this comp isn't really my bag.

Sprouts

A callous Flemish trader
Brought us sprouts from overseas,
And now our Yuletide’s nadir
Is a soggy heap of these.

Each Christmas, green and haggard,
I remember how I hurled
Them up last year. I’m staggered
God allows them in our world.

My turkey’s left as tarnished,
Roasted spuds are pushed away,
And all because they’re garnished
With these horrid things; when they

Get served all goes uneaten.
No food merits less regard;
A five-starred chef can’t sweeten
Them or change their stench to nard.

[Roger Slater]

For years I've been a trader
who set sail upon the seas.
I've had my lumps. The nadir
must for sure be one of these:

A merchant, pale and haggard,
looked inside my bag and hurled.
A snake-bite left me staggered,
nearly took me from this world.

My good name once was tarnished
and my wares were stripped away.
My wages once were garnished.
I had thirteen wives and they,

to my regret, were eaten,
an event that I regard
as so tragic one can't sweeten
its unpleasantness with nard.

[Jerome Betts]

Not really your bag, Rob? Could have fooled me. Actually, sprouts came to this country in the late 18th century or thereabouts, not medieval times. The RHS claims a 'spontaneous sport' in the Brussels area about 1750.