Competition No. 2657: Pilgrims’ progress

In Competition No. 2657 you were invited to imagine what merry band Chaucer might bring together if he were writing today.

It was another bumper entry this week, and you fell into two camps. There were those who reasoned that were Chaucer writing today he’d probably use modern English. Others, though, couldn’t resist the lure of Middle English, which was used to great comic effect. As spelling in the 14th century was a fluid affair (despite Chaucer’s attempts to standardise it), I didn’t worry too much on that score. What was more important was to capture the wit and vibrancy of his writing, and many of you did so admirably.

Commendations go to unlucky losers Marion Shore, Brian Murdoch, Gerard Benson, Bill Greenwell, Paul Griffin and G.W. Tapper; the winners, printed below, are rewarded with £25 each. The bonus fiver goes to Mary Holtby.

A yonge Cook ther was, who Jamye hight,
In fresshe foode was hys whol delit;
He wolde fede the smale children so
For Turkey Twizzlers were to hym unknowe.
  An auncient Bischop folwed in the weye,
Al cladde in purple, but he nas nat gay;
At everich paas hee loked wel bihynde
Lyst hee a ladye bischop mighte fynde,
Than bisily gan preye for the soules
Of pilgryms from the Parlement of Foules;
For swiche, in veritee theyr brasse is mukke,
A clene Hous they scorne, to house a dukke.
  And laste, in sadde array with droopyng flagges
Lymped Seint Georges armee and theyr Wagges,
Th hooly blisful martyr to implore
That hee assoile hem — but I seye namoore.
Mary Holtby

A clerkes sone ther was, a froward wight,
Nat fat but for his paunch and ful in height.
He hadde a voys he wroght to ryse and fal,
And koude outshout a loude croude with alle.
In scoff of al that elfin salftie preche
He wolde more speke his mynd than mynde his speche.