The Tunnyng of Elynour Rummyng Per Skelton Laureat

Tell you I chyll,If that ye wyllA whyle be styll,Of a comely gyllThat dwelt on a hyll:But she is not gryll,For she is somwhat sageAnd well worne in age;For her vysageIt would aswageA mannes courage.Her lothely lereIs nothynge clere,But vgly of chere,Droupy and drowsy,Scuruy and lowsy;Her face all bowsy,Comely crynklyd,Woundersly wrynkled,Lyke a rost pygges eare,Brystled wyth here.Her lewde lyppes twayne,They slauer, men sayne,Lyke a ropy rayne,A gummy glayre:She is vgly fayre;Her nose somdele hoked,And camously croked,Neuer stoppynge,But euer droppynge;Her skynne lose and slacke,Grained lyke a sacke;With a croked backe.Her eyen gowndyAre full vnsowndy,For they are blered;And she gray hered;Jawed lyke a jetty;A man would haue pyttyTo se how she is gumbed,Fyngered and thumbed,Gently ioynted,Gresed and annoyntedVp to the knockels;The bones of her huckelsLyke as they were with buckelsTogyther made fast:Her youth is farre past:Foted lyke a plane,Legged lyke a crane;And yet she wyll iet,Lyke a iolly fet,In her furred flocket,And gray russet rocket,With symper the cocket.Her huke of Lyncole grene,It had ben hers, I wene,More then fourty yere;And so doth it apere,For the grene bare thredesLoke lyke sere wedes,Wyddered lyke hay,The woll worne away;And yet I dare sayeShe thynketh herselfe gayeVpon the holy daye,Whan she doth her aray,And gyrdeth in her gytesStytched and pranked with pletes;Her kyrtel Brystow red,With clothes vpon her hedThat wey a sowe of led,Wrythen in wonder wyse,After the Sarasyns gyse,With a whym wham,Knyt with a trym tram,Vpon her brayne pan,Lyke an Egyptian,Capped about:Whan she goeth outHerselfe for to shewe,She dryueth downe the deweWyth a payre of helesAs brode as two wheles;She hobles as a goseWith her blanket hoseOuer the falowe;Her shone smered wyth talowe,Gresed vpon dyrtThat baudeth her skyrt.

And this comely dame,I vnderstande, her nameIs Elynour Rummynge,At home in her wonnynge;And as men sayShe dwelt in Sothray,In a certayne stedeBysyde Lederhede.She is a tonnysh gyb;The deuyll and she be syb.But to make vp my tale,She breweth noppy ale,And maketh therof port saleTo trauellars, to tynkers,To sweters, to swynkers,And all good ale drynkers,That wyll nothynge spare,But drynke tyll they stareAnd brynge themselfe bare,With, Now away the mare,And let vs sley care,As wyse as an hare!Come who so wyllTo Elynour on the hyll,Wyth, Fyll the cup, fyll,And syt there by styll,Erly and late:Thyther cometh Kate,Cysly, and Sare,With theyr legges bare,And also theyr feteHardely full vnswete;Wyth theyr heles dagged,Theyr kyrtelles all to-iagged,Theyr smockes all to-ragged,Wyth tytters and tatters,Brynge dysshes and platters,Wyth all theyr myght runnyngeTo Elynour Rummynge,To haue of her tunnynge:She leneth them on the same,And thus begynneth the game.Some wenches come vnlased,Some huswyues come vnbrased,Wyth theyr naked pappes,That flyppes and flappes;It wygges and it wagges,Lyke tawny saffron bagges;A sorte of foule drabbesAll scuruy with scabbes:Some be flybytten,Some skewed as a kytten;Some wyth a sho cloutBynde theyr heddes about;Some haue no herelace,Theyr lockes about theyr face,Theyr tresses vntrust,All full of vnlust;Some loke strawry,Some cawry mawry;Full vntydy tegges,Lyke rotten egges.Suche a lewde sorteTo Elynour resorteFrom tyde to tyde:Abyde, abyde,And to you shall be toldeHowe hyr ale is soldeTo Mawte and to Molde.

Some haue no monyThat thyder commy,For theyr ale to pay,That is a shreud aray;Elynour swered, Nay,Ye shall not beare awayMy ale for nought,By hym that me bought!Haue these hogges away!With, Get me a staffe,The swyne eate my draffe!Stryke the hogges with a clubbe,They haue dronke vp my swyllynge tubbe!For, be there neuer so much prese,These swyne go to the hye dese,The sowe with her pygges;The bore his tayle wrygges,His rumpe also he fryggesAgaynst the hye benche!Gather vp, thou wenche;Seest thou not what is fall?Take vp dyrt and all,And bere out of the hall:God gyue it yll preuynge,Clenly as yuell cheuynge!But let vs turne playne,There we lefte agayne.For, as yll a patch as that,The hennes ron in the mashfat;For they go to roustStreyght ouer the ale ioust,And donge, whan it commes,In the ale tunnes.Than Elynour takethThe mashe bolle, and shakethThe hennes donge away,And skommeth it into a trayWhereas the yeest is,With her maungy fystis:And somtyme she blennesThe donge of her hennesAnd the ale together;And sayeth, Gossyp, come hyther,This ale shal be thycker,And flowre the more quicker;For I may tell you,I lerned it of a Jewe,Whan I began to brewe,And I haue founde it trew;Drinke now whyle it is new;And ye may it broke,It shall make you lokeYonger than ye beYeres two or thre,For ye may proue it by me;Beholde, she sayde, and seHow bryght I am of ble!Ich am not cast away,That can my husband say,Whan we kys and playIn lust and in lykyng;He calleth me his whytyng,His mullyng and his mytyng,His nobbes and his conny,His swetyng and his honny,Thou art worth good and monny.This make I my falyre fonny,Til that he dreme and dronny;For, after all our sport,Than wyll he rout and snort;Than swetely together we ly,As two pygges in a sty.To cease me semeth best,And of this tale to rest,And for to leue this letter,Because it is no better,And because it is no swetter;We wyll no farther rymeOf it at this tyme;But we wyll turne playneWhere we left agayne.

Instede of coyne and monny,Some brynge her a conny,And some a pot with honny,Some a salt, and some a spone,Some theyr hose, some theyr shone;Some ran a good trotWith a skellet or a pot;Some fyll theyr pot fullOf good Lemster woll:An huswyfe of trust,Whan she is athrust,Suche a webbe can spyn,Her thryft is full thyn.Some go streyght thyder,Be it slaty or slyder;They holde the hye waye,They care not what men say,Be that as be maye;Some, lothe to be espyde,Start in at the backe syde,Ouer the hedge and pale,And all for the good ale.Some renne tyll they swete,Brynge wyth them malte or whete,And dame Elynour entreteTo byrle them of the best.Than cometh an other gest;She swered by the rode of rest,Her lyppes are so drye,Without drynke she must dye;Therefore fyll it by and by,And haue here a pecke of ry.Anone cometh another,As drye as the other,And wyth her doth bryngeMele, salte, or other thynge,Her haruest gyrdle, her weddynge rynge,To pay for her scotAs cometh to her lot.Som bryngeth her husbandes hood,Because the ale is good;Another brought her his capTo offer to the ale tap,Wyth flaxe and wyth towe;And some brought sowre dowe;Syt we downe a rowe,And drynke tyll we blowe,And pype tyrly tyrlowe!Some layde to pledgeTheyr hatchet and theyr wedge,Theyr hekell and theyr rele,Theyr rocke, theyr spynnyng whele;And some went so narrowe,They layde to pledge theyr wharrowe,Theyr rybskyn and theyr spyndell,Theyr nedell and theyr thymbell:Here was scant thryftWhan they made suche shyft.Theyr thrust was so great,They asked neuer for mete,But drynke, styll drynke,And let the cat wynke,Let vs washe our gommesFrom the drye crommes.

Some for very nedeLayde downe a skeyne of threde,And some a skeyne of yarne;Some brought from the barneBoth benes and pease;Small chaffer doth easeSometyme, now and than:Another there was that ranWith a good brasse pan;Her colour was full wan;She ran in all the hastVnbrased and vnlast;Tawny, swart, and sallowe,Lyke a cake of tallowe;I swere by all hallow,It was a stale to takeThe deuyll in a brake.And than came haltyng Jone,And brought a gamboneOf bakon that was resty:But, Lorde, as she was testy,Angry as a waspy!She began to yane and gaspy,And bad Elynour go bet,And fyll in good met;It was dere that was farre fet.Another brought a spyckeOf a bacon flycke;Her tonge was verye quycke,But she spake somwhat thycke:Her felow did stammer and stut,But she was a foule slut,For her mouth fomydAnd her bely groned:Jone sayne she had eaten a fyest;By Christ, sayde she, thou lyest,I haue as swete a brethAs thou, wyth shamfull deth!Than Elynour sayde, Ye callettes,I shall breake your palettes,Wythout ye now cease!And so was made the peace.Than thyder came dronken Ales;And she was full of tales,Of tydynges in Wales,And of sainct James in Gales,And of the Portyngales;Thus and thus it is,There hath ben great warBetwene Temple BarAnd the Crosse in Chepe,And there came an hepeOf mylstones in a route:She speketh thus in her snout,Sneuelyng in her nose,As thoughe she had the pose;Lo, here is an olde typpet,And ye wyll gyue me a syppetOf your stale ale,God sende you good sale!And as she was drynkynge,She fyll in a wynkyngeWyth a barlyhood,She pyst where she stood;Than began she to wepe,And forthwyth fell on slepe.Elynour toke her vp,And blessed her wyth a cupOf newe ale in cornes;Ales founde therin no thornes,But supped it vp at ones,She founde therin no bones.

Nowe in cometh another rabell;Fyrst one wyth a ladell,Another wyth a cradell,And wyth a syde sadell:And there began a fabell,A clatterynge and a babellOf folys fyllyThat had a fole wyth wylly,With, Iast you, and, gup, gylly!She coulde not lye stylly.Then came in a genet,And sware by saynct Benet,I dranke not this sennetA draught to my pay;Elynour, I thé pray,Of thyne ale let vs assay,And haue here a pylche of gray;I were skynnes of conny,That causeth I loke so donny.Another than dyd hyche her,And brought a pottel pycher,A tonnel, and a bottell,But she had lost the stoppell;She cut of her sho sole,And stopped therwyth the hole.Amonge all the blommer,Another brought a skommer,A fryinge pan, and a slyce;Elynour made the pryceFor good ale eche whyt.Than sterte in mad Kyt,That had lyttle wyt;She semed somdele seke,And brought a peny chekeTo dame Elynour,For a draught of lycour.Than Margery MylkeduckeHer kyrtell she did vptuckeAn ynche aboue her kne,Her legges that ye myght se;But they were sturdy and stubbed,Myghty pestels and clubbed,As fayre and as whyteAs the fote of a kyte:She was somwhat foule,Crokenecked lyke an oule;And yet she brought her fees,A cantell of Essex cheseWas well a fote thycke,Full of maggottes quycke;It was huge and greate,And myghty stronge meateFor the deuyll to eate;It was tart and punyete.Another sorte of sluttes,Some brought walnuttes,Some apples, some peres,Some brought theyr clyppynge sheres,Some brought this and that,Some brought I wote nere what,Some brought theyr husbandes hat,Some podynges and lynkes,Some trypes that stynkes.But of all this throngeOne came them amonge,She semed halfe a leche,And began to precheOf the tewsday in the wekeWhan the mare doth keke;Of the vertue of an vnset leke;Of her husbandes breke;Wyth the feders of a qualeShe could to Burdeou sayle;And wyth good ale barmeShe could make a charmeTo helpe wythall a stytch:She semed to be a wytch.Another brought two goslynges,That were noughty froslynges;She brought them in a wallet,She was a cumly callet:The goslenges were untyde;Elynour began to chyde,They be wretchockes thou hast brought,They are shyre shakyng nought!

Maude Ruggy thyther skypped:She was vgly hypped,And vgly thycke lypped,Lyke an onyon syded,Lyke tan ledder hyded:She had her so guydedBetwene the cup and the wall,That she was there wythallInto a palsey fall;Wyth that her hed shaked,And her handes quaked:Ones hed wold haue akedTo se her naked:She dranke so of the dregges,The dropsy was in her legges;Her face glystryng lyke glas;All foggy fat she was;She had also the goutIn all her ioyntes about;Her breth was soure and stale,And smelled all of ale:Suche a bedfellawWold make one cast his craw;But yet for all thatShe dranke on the mash fat.There came an old rybybe;She halted of a kybe,And had broken her shynAt the threshold comyng in,And fell so wyde openThat one myght se her token,The deuyll thereon be wroken!What nede all this be spoken?She yelled lyke a calfe:Ryse vp, on Gods halfe,Said Elynour Rummyng,I beshrew thé for thy cummyng!And as she at her did pluck,Quake, quake, sayd the duckIn that lampatrams lap;Wyth sum flyp flap!God gyue it yll hap,Sayde Elynour for shame,Lyke an honest dame.Vp she stert, halfe lame,And skantly could goFor payne and for wo.In came another dant,Wyth a gose and a gant:She had a wide wesant;She was nothynge plesant;Necked lyke an olyfant;It was a bullyfant,A gredy cormerant.Another brought her garlyke hedes;Another brought her bedesOf iet or of cole,To offer to the ale pole:Some brought a wymble,Some brought a thymble,Some brought a sylke lace,Some brought a pyncase,Some her husbandes gowne,Some a pyllow of downe,Some of the napery;And all this shyfte they makeFor the good ale sake.A strawe, sayde Bele, stande vtter,For we haue egges and butter,And of pygeons a payre.Than sterte forth a fysgygge,And she brought a bore pygge;The fleshe therof was ranke,And her brethe strongly stanke,Yet, or she went, she dranke,And gat her great thankeOf Elynour for her ware,That she thyther bareTo pay for her share.Now truly, to my thynkynge,This is a solempne drinkynge.

Soft, quod one, hyght Sybbyll,And let me wyth you bybyll.She sat downe in the place,With a sory faceWheywormed about;Garnyshed was her snoutWyth here and there a puscull,Lyke a scabbyd muscull.This ale, sayde she, is noppy;Let vs syppe and soppy,And not spyll a droppy,For so mote I hoppy,It coleth well my croppy.Dame Elynoure, sayde she,Haue here is for me,A cloute of London pynnes;And wyth that she begynnesThe pot to her plucke,And dranke a good lucke;She swynged vp a quarteAt ones for her parte;Her paunche was so puffed,And so wyth ale stuffed,Had she not hyed apace,She had defoyled the place.Than began the sporteAmonge that dronken sorte:Dame Eleynour, sayde they,Lende here a cocke of hey,To make all thynge cleane;Ye wote well what we meane.But, syr, among allThat sat in that hall,There was a pryckemedenty,Sat lyke a seynty,And began to paynty,As thoughe she would faynty;She made it as koyAs a lege de moy;She was not halfe so wyseAs she was peuysshe nyse.She sayde neuer a worde,But rose from the borde,And called for our dame,Elynour by name.We supposed, I wys,That she rose to pys;But the very groundeWas for to compoundeWyth Elynour in the spence,To pay for her expence:I haue no penny nor groteTo pay, sayde she, God wote,For washyng of my throte;But my bedes of amberBere them to your chamber.Then Elynour dyd them hydeWythin her beddes syde.But some than sat ryght sadThat nothynge hadThere of theyr awne,Neyther gelt nor pawne;Suche were there mennyThat had not a penny,But, whan they should walke,Were fayne wyth a chalkeTo score on the balke,Or score on the tayle:God gyue it yll hayle!For my fyngers ytche;I haue wrytten to mytcheOf this mad mummyngeOf Elynour Rummynge.Thus endeth the gestOf this worthy fest.