The Tunning of Elynor Rummynge

by John Skelton (1460-1529)

Some have no money
That thither comey,
For their ale to pay;
That is a shrewd array!
Elinour sweared, "Nay,
Ye shall not bear away
My ale for nought,
By Him that me bought."
With, "Hey, dog, hey,
Have these hogs away!"
With, "Get me a staff,
The swine eat my draff!
Strike the hogs with a club,
They have drunk up my swilling-tub!"
For, be there never so much prese,
These swine go to the high dese;
The sow with her pigs;
The boar his tail wrigs,
His rump also he frigs
Against the high bench!
With, "Fo, there is a stench!
Gather up, thou wench;
Seest thou not what is fall?
Take up dirt and all,
And bear out of the hall:
God give it ill preving
Cleanly as evil cheving!"
 But let us turn plain
There we left again.
For as ill a patch as that
The hens run in the mash-fat;
For they go to roost
Straight over the ale-joust,
And dung, when it comes,
In the ale tuns.
Then Elinour taketh
The mash-bowl, and shaketh
The hens' dung away,
And skommeth it in a tray
Whereas the yeast is,
With her mangy fistis,
And sometime she blens
The dung of her hens
And the ale together;
And saith, "Gossip, come hither,
This ale shall be thicker,
And flower the more quicker;
For I may tell you,
I learned it of a Jew,
When I began to brew,
And I have found it true;
Drink now while it is new;
And ye may it brook,
It shall make you look
Younger than ye be,
Years two or three,
For ye may prove it by me.
Behold," she said, "and see
How bright I am of ble!
Ich am not cast away,
That can my husband say,
When we kiss and play
In lust and in liking;
He calleth me his whiting,
His mulling and his miting,
His nobs and his cony,
His sweeting and his honey,
With, 'Bas, my pretty bonny,
Thou art worth good and money!'
Thus make I my falyre fonny,
Till that he dream and dronny,
For after all our sport,
Then will he rout and snort;
Then sweetly together we lie,
As two pigs in a sty."
 To cease meseemeth best,
And of this tale to rest,
And for to leave this letter,
Because it is no better,
And because it is no sweeter;
We will no farther rhyme
Of it at this time,
But we will turn plain
Where we left again.