The Tunning of Elenor Rumming

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 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 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.

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.

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!"

But some than sat ryght sad

That nothynge had

There of theyre 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 gyve it yll hayle!

For my fyngers ytche;

I have wrytten to mytche

Of this mad mummynge

Of Elynour Rummynge:

Thus endeth the gest

Of this worthy fest!

Quod Skelton, Laureat.