John Skelton - The Tunning of Elenor Rumming lyrics

Tell you I chyll, If that ye wyll A whyle be styll, Of a comely gyll That dwelt on a hyll: But she is not gryll, For she is somwhat sage And well worne in age; For her vysage It would aswage A mannes courage. Her lothely lere Is nothynge clere, But ugly of chere, Droupy and drowsy, Scurvy and lowsy; Her face all bowsy, Comely crynkled, Woundersly wrynkled, Lyke a rost pygges eare, Brystled wyth here. Her lewde lyppes twayne, They slaver, men sayne, Lyke a ropy rayne, A gummy glayre: She is ugly fayre; Her nose somdele hoked, And camously croked, Never stoppynge, But ever droppynge; Her skynne lose and slacke, Grained lyke a sacke; With a croked backe. Her eyen gowndy Are full unsowndy, For they are blered; And she gray hered; Jawed lyke a jetty; A man would have pytty To se how she is gumbed, Fyngered and thumbed, Gently joynted, Gresed and annoynted Up to the knockles; The bones of her huckels Lyke as they were with buckels Togyther made fast: Her youth is farre past: Foted lyke a plane, Legged lyke a crane; And yet she wyll jet, Lyke a jollyvet, In her furred flocket, And gray russet rocket, With symper the co*ket. Her huke of Lyncole grene, It had ben hers, I wene, More then fourty yere; And so doth it apere, For the grene bare thredes Loke lyke sere wedes, Wyddered lyke hay, The woll worne away; And yet I dare saye She thynketh herselfe gaye Upon the holy daye, Whan she doth her aray, And gyrdeth in her gytes Stytched and pranked with pletes; Her kyrtel Brystow red, With clothes upon her hed That wey a sowe of led, Wrythen in wonder wyse, After the Sarasyns gyse With a whym wham, Knyt with a trym tram, Upon her brayne pan, Lyke an Egyptian, Capped about: When she goeth out Herselfe for to shewe, She dryveth downe the dewe Wyth a payre of heles As brode as two wheles; She hobles as a gose With her blanket hose Over the falowe; Her shone smered wyth talowe, Gresed upon dyrt That baudeth her skyrt. Primus pa**us And this comely dame, I understande, her name Is Elynour Rummynge, At home in her wonnynge; And as men say She dwelt in Sothray, In a certayne stede Bysyde Lederhede . She is a tonnysh gyb; The devyll and she be syb. But to make up my tale, She breweth noppy ale, And maketh therof port sale To travellars, to tynkers, To sweters, to swynkers, And all good ale drynkers, That wyll nothynge spare, But drynke tyll they stare And brynge themselfe bare, With, "Now away the mare, And let us sley care, As wyse as an hare!" Come who so wyll To 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 fete, Hardely, full unswete; Wyth theyr heles dagged, Theyr kyrtelles all to-jagged, Theyr smockes all to-ragged, Wyth titters and tatters, Brynge dysshes and platters, Wyth all theyr myght runnynge To Elynour Rummynge, To have of her tunnynge: She leneth them on the same. And thus begynneth the game. Some wenches come unlased, Some huswyues come unbrased, Wyth theyr naked pappes, That flyppes and flappes; It wygges and it wagges, Lyke tawny saffron bagges; A sorte of foule drabbes All scuruy with scabbes: Some be flybytten, Some skewed as a kytten; Some wyth a sho clout Bynde theyr heddes about; Some haue no herelace, Theyr lockes about theyr face, Theyr tresses untrust, All full of vnlust; Some loke strawry, Some cawry mawry; Full vntydy tegges, Lyke rotten egges. Suche lewde sorte Eo Elynour resorte From tyde to tyde: Abyde, abyde, And to you shall be tolde Howe hyr ale is solde To Mawte and to Molde. Secundus pa**us Some haue no mony That thyder commy, For theyr ale to pay, That is a shreud aray ; Elynour swered, Nay, Ye shall not beare away My ale for nought, By hym that me bought! With, Hey, dogge, hay, 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 frygges Agaynst the hye benche! With, Fo, ther is a stenche! 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 roust Streyght ouer the ale ioust, And donge, whan it commes, In the ale tunnes. Than Elynour taketh The mashe bolle, and shaketh The hennes donge away, And skommeth it into a tray Whereas the yeest is, With her maungy fystis: And somtyme she blennes The donge of her hennes And 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 loke Yonger than ye be Yeres two or thre, For ye may proue it by me; Beholde, she sayde, and se How bryght I am of ble! Ich am not cast away, That can my husband say, Whan we kys and play In lust and in lykyng; He calleth me his whytyng, His mullyng and his mytyng, His nobbes and his conny, His swetyng and his honny, With, Bas, my prety bonny, 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 cese 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 ryme Of it at this tyme; But we wyll turne playne Where we left agayne. Tertius pa**us 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 trot With a skellet or a pot; Some fyll theyr pot full Of 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, Over the hedge and pale, And all for the good ale. Some renne tyll they swete, Brynge wyth them malte or whete, And dame Elynour entrete To 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 have here a pecke of ry. Anone cometh another, As drye as the other, And wyth her doth brynge Mele, salte, or other thynge, Her harvest gyrdle, her weddyng rynge, To pay for her scot As cometh to her lot. Som bryngeth her husbandes hood, Because the ale is good; Another brought her his cap To offer to the ale-tap, Wyth flaxe and wyth towe; And some brought sowre dowe; Wyth, "Hey, and wyth, Howe, Syt we downe a-rowe, And drynke tyll we blowe, And pype tyrly tyrlowe!" Some layde to pledge Theyr 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 thryft Whan they made suche shyft Theyr thrust was so great, They asked never for mete, But drynke, styll drynke, "And let the cat wynke, Let us washe our gommes From the drye crommes!" Quartus Pa**us … Septimus Pa**us Soft, quod one, hyght Sybbyll, And let me wyth you bybyll. She sat downe in the place, With a sory face Wheywormed about; Garnyshed was her snout Wyth 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 begynnes The pot to her plucke, And dranke a good lucke; She swynged vp a quarte At 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 sporte Amonge that dronken sorte: Dame Eleynour, sayde they, Lende here a co*ke of hey, To make all thynge cleane; Ye wote well what we meane. But, syr, among all That 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 koy As a lege de moy; She was not halfe so wyse As 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 grounde Was for to compounde Wyth Elynour in the spence, To pay for her expence: I haue no penny nor grote To pay, sayde she, God wote, For washyng of my throte; But my bedes of amber Bere them to your chamber. Then Elynour dyd them hyde Wythin her beddes syde. But some than sat ryght sad That nothynge had There of theyr awne, Neyther gelt nor pawne; Suche were there menny That had not a penny, But, whan they should walke, Were fayne wyth a chalke To score on the balke, Or score on the tayle: God gyue it yll hayle! For my fyngers ytche; I haue wrytten to mytche Of this mad mummynge Of Elynour Rummynge. Thus endeth the gest Of this worthy fest.