Woman of the guard

The Beefeatress in question is not, as you might imagine, a middle-aged matron in the mould of Margaret Dumont but a 38-year-old lassie from Lochgilphead, Argyll, named Moira Cameron. (Those who got her forename wrong or thought she came from Fife are pardoned.) Special commendations to Jim Davies, Michael Brereton, W.J. Webster and David Schofield. The prizewinners, printed below, get £40 each, and the bonus fiver goes without hesitation to that vivid veteran Basil Ransome-Davies.

When a girl has a yen to compete with the men for a uniformed job at the Tower

She must fearlessly fight to establish her right and not weep like a baby or cower.

She must dig in her heels with the pride that she feels as she challenges outmoded attitudes,

Be a heroine who dares all those prurient stares and the mouthing of chauvinist platitudes.

For the tabard and hose is the costume she chose and she’ll wear it with honour and loyalty

As a notable first with a soul that’s immersed in the privileged service of royalty.

She will handled with ease the amassed Japanese as they flourish their digital cameras

And the show-off young blokes with their dull-witted jokes and the idiots trying to get amorous.

Oh there’s no place to hide once you firmly decide that you’ll follow a warder’s vocation

And perform, so to speak, as a living antique, and the iconic face of the nation,

With the glittering spike of your halberd or pike and your coat in monarchical scarlet

And the hat that you wear with a glamorous air that makes Kylie seem only a starlet,

While the tourists admire the resplendent attire of their trustworthy guide and explainer

Of historical facts and some bloodthirsty acts and all sorts of intriguing arcana

And the ravens that fly in the east London sky will abandon their searches for carrion

To parade on the walls with unanimous calls of encouraging greeting — it’s well worth repeating — encouraging greeting to Marion!

Basil Ransome-Davies

They’re changing guards at London’s Tower,

Ancient symbol of England’s power.

The Lord Lieutenant, short of a warder,

Has taken on one — of the feminine order!

Many a former Head of State

Would have shown such a fellow the Traitors’ Gate.

And what might Henry the Eighth have said?

Off with her uniform! Off with her head!

They’re trying to turn the glamour on

With winsome Warder Cameron.

Offering sight of this fair young maid

Could work wonders with the tourist trade.

It’s all good news for the public purse.

And bear in mind that it could have been worse:

Those famously nicknamed consumers of meat

Might have had vegetarians sharing their beat.

Esdon Frost

She is the very model of a news item that’s feminine,

By scooping up the jobs that once had only beefy men in ’em,

And people love wild photos showing women wearing uniform —

Although the shape is dubiously angular and cuneiform.

So though she’s in the boys’ brigade and guards the Tower manfully,

And joined Beefeaters keeping it for tourists spick and span-fully,

I wonder if she’s still the one who’s mother when they break for tea

And always has a tissue when they haven’t got a handkerchee’.

And though cross-dressing’s fun for some, I wonder if the architect

Was cursing, secretly of course, the female sex’s great defect

Of needing separate loos to fit the laws on matters sanitary

(Or whether asking this is simply nit-picking and janitory).

The ravens’ thoughts ain’t here nor there — it isn’t strictly logical

To contemplate employment through such views ornithological;

The simple fact that women can be Beefeaters is great, and we

Should fix on that alone, and keep the poem celebratory.

D.A. Prince

We are the Yeomen warders of the Tower,

In former times the criminals would cower

When they entered Traitors’ Gate, and would tremble at their fate,

For they knew the Yeomen warders had the power, had the power,

Yes, they knew the Yeomen warders had the power.

Now, the ship of state will never hit a reef

While the Yeomen get their daily cut of beef,

For we maintain the havens for the Tower of London ravens,

And the crown jewels will never come to grief, come to grief,

No, the crown jewels will never come to grief.

Noble women were beheaded here, they say,

Catherine Howard, Anne Boleyn and Lady Grey,

But now, by special order, we have a woman warder,

So we trust that she will keep her head, and pray, yes, we pray,

That she, at least, will keep her head and stay.

Tim Raikes

You are invited to supply an acrostic poem, involving questions and answers, in which the first letters of the lines read SOCRATIC METHOD. Entries to ‘Competition No. 2482’ by 15 February. Please note that our address has changed to 22 Old Queen Street, London SW1H 9HP.