Five Tudor Portraits: A Choral Suite in Five Movements

Rumming
Tell you I will,
If that ye will
A-while be still,
Of a comely Jill
That dwelt on a hill:
She is somewhat sage
And well worn in age:
For her visage
It would assuage
A man's courage.
Droopy and drowsy,
Scurvy and lowsy,
Her face all bowsy,
Comely crinkled,
Wondrously wrinkled
Like a roast pig's ear,
Bristled with hair.
Her nose some deal hookéd,
And camously-crookéd,
Never stopping,
But ever dropping;
Her skin loose and slack,
Grained like a sack;
With a crooked back.
Jawed like a jetty;
A man would have pity
To see how she is gumméd,
Fingered and thumbéd,
Gently jointed,
Greased and anointed
Up to the knuckles;
Like as they were with buckles
Together made fast.
Her youth is far past!

And yet she will jet
Like a jollivet,
In her furréd flocket,
And gray russet rocket,
With simper and cocket.
Her hood of Lincoln green
It has been hers, I ween,
More than forty year;
And so doth it appear,
For the green bare threadés
Look like sere weedés,
Withered like hay,
The wool worn away.
And yet, I dare say
She thinketh herself gay
Upon the holiday
When she doth her array
And girdeth on her geets
Stitched and pranked with pleats;
Her kirtle, Bristol-red,
With clothes upon her head
That weigh a sow of lead,
Writhen in wondrous wise
After the Saracen's guise,
With a whim-wham
Knit with a trim-tram
Upon her brain-pan;
Like an Egyptian
Cappéd about,
When she goeth out.

And this comely dame,
I understand, her name
Is Elinor Rumming,
At home in her wonning;
And as men say
She dwelt in Surrey
In a certain stead
Beside Leatherhead.
She is a tonnish gib,
The devil and she be sib.
But to make up my tale
She breweth nappy ale,
And maketh thereof pot-sale
To travellers, to tinkers,
To sweaters, to swinkers,
And all good ale-drinkers,
That will nothing spare
But drink till they stare
And bring themselves bare,
With 'Now away the mare!
And let us slay care'.
As wise as an hare!
Come who so will
To Elinor on the hill
With 'Fill the cup, fill!'
And sit there by still,
Early and late.
Thither cometh Kate,
Cisly, and Sare,
With their legs bare,
They run in all haste,
Unbraced and unlaced;
With their heelés daggéd,
Their kirtles all jaggéd,
Their smocks all to-raggéd,
With titters and tatters,
Bring dishes and platters,
With all their might running
To Elinor Rumming
To have of her tunning.

She lendeth them on the same,
And thus beginneth the game.
Some wenches come unlaced
Some housewives come unbraced
Some be flybitten,
Some skewed as a kitten;
Some have no hair-lace,
Their locks about their face
Such a rude sort
To Elinor resort
From tide to tide,
Abide, abide!
And to you shall be told
How her ale is sold
To Maud and to Mold.
Some have no money
That thither comé
For their ale to pay.
That is a shrewd array!
Elinor sweared, 'Nay,
Ye shall not bear away
Mine ale for nought,
By him that me bought! '
With 'Hey, dog, hey!
Have these hogs away! '
With 'Get me a staffé
The swine eat my draffé!
Strike the hogs with a club,
They have drunk up my swilling-tub!'

Then thither came drunken Alice,
And she was full of talés,
Of tidings in Walés,
And of Saint James in Galés,
And of the Portingalés,
With 'Lo, Gossip, I wis,
Thus and thus it is:
There hath been great war
Between Temple Bar
And the Cross in Cheap,
And there came an heap
Of mill-stones in a rout '.
She speaketh thus in her snout,
Snivelling in her nose
As though she had the pose.

'Lo, here is an old tippet,
An ye will give me a sippet
Of your stale ale,
God send you good sale! '
'This ale', said she, 'is noppy;
Let us suppé and soppy
And not spill a droppy,
For, so may I hoppy,
It cooleth well my croppy ,
Then began she to weep
And forthwith fell asleep.
('With Hey! and with Ho!
Sit we down a-row,
And drink till we blow.')
Now in cometh another rabble:
And there began a fabble,
A clattering and babble
They hold the highway,
They care not what men say,
Some, loth to be espied,
Start in at the back-side
Over the hedge and pale,
And all for the good ale.

(With Hey! and with Ho!
Sit we down a-row,
And drink till we blow.)

Their thirst was so great
They asked never for meat,
But drink, still drink,
And 'Let the cat wink,
Let us wash our gummés
From the dry crummés!'
Some brought a wimble,
Some brought a thimble,
Some brought this and that
Some brought I wot ne'er what.
And all this shift they make
For the good ale sake.
'With Hey! and with Ho!
Sit we down a-row,
And drink till we blow,
And pipe "Tirly Tirlow!",
      *       *       *
But my fingers itch,
I have written too much
Of this mad mumming
Of Elinor Rumming!
Thus endeth the geste
Of this worthy feast.

My proper Bess
My pretty Bess;
  Turn once again to me!
For sleepest thou, Bess,
  Or wakest thou, Bess,
Mine heart it is with thee.

My daisy delectable,
My primrose commendable,
  My violet amiable,
My joy inexplicable,
  Now turn again to me.

Alas! I am disdained,
And as a man half maimed,
  My heart is so sore pained!
I pray thee, Bess, unfeigned,
  Yet come again to me!

By love I am constrained
To be with you retained,
  It will not be refrained:
I pray you, be reclaimed,
  And turn again to me.

My proper Bess,
My pretty Bess,
  Turn once again to me!
For sleepest thou, Bess,
  Or wakest thou, Bess,
Mine heart it is with thee.

Sequitur trigintale
Tale quale rationale,
Licet parum curiale,
Tamen satis est formale,
Joannis Clerc, hominis
Cujusdam multinominis,
Joannes Jayberd qui vocatur,
Clerc cleribus nuncupatur.
Obiit sanctus iste pater
Anno Domini Millesimo Quingentesimo sexto.
In parochia de Diss
Non erat sibi similis;
In malitia vir insignis,
Duplex corde et bilinguis;
Senio confectus,
Omnibus suspectus,
Nemini dilectus,
Sepultus est among the weeds:
God forgive him his misdeeds!
Carmina cum cannis
Cantemus festa Joannis:
Clerk obiit vere,
Jayberd nomenque dedere:
Diss populo natus,
Clerk cleribus estque vocatus.
Nunquam sincere
Solitus sua crimina flere:
Cui male linguo loquax -- 
 -- Qui mendax que, fuere
Et mores tales
Resident in nemine quales;
Carpens vitales
Auras, turbare sodales
Et cives socios.
Asinus, mulus velut, et bos.
Quid petis, hic sit quis?
John Jayberd, incola de Diss;
Cui, dum vixerat is,
Sociantur jurgia, vis, lis.
Jam jacet hic stark dead,
Never a tooth in his head.
Adieu, Jayberd, adieu,
In faith, deacon thou crew!
Fratres, orate
For this knavate,
By the holy rood,
Did never man good:
I pray you all,
And pray shall,
At this trental
On knees to fall
To the football,
With 'Fill the black bowl
For Jayberd's soul'.
Bibite multum:
Ecce sepultum
Sub pede stultum.
Asinum et mulum.
With, 'Hey, ho, rumbelow!'
Rumpopulorum
Per omnia Secula seculorum!

Placebo!
Who is there, who?
Dilexi!
Dame Margery?
Fa, re, mi, mi,
Wherefore and why, why?
For the soul of Philip Sparrow,
That was, late, slain at Carrow,
Among the Nuns Black.
For that sweet soul's sake,
And for all sparrows' souls
Set in our bead-rolls.

When I remember again
How my Philip was slain,
Never half the pain
Was between you twain,
Pyramus and Thisbe,
As then befell to me:
I wept and I wailed,
The tears down hailed,
But nothing it availed
To call Philip again,
Whom Gib, our cat, hath slain.
Vengeance I ask and cry,
By way of exclamation,
On all the whole nation
Of cattés wild and tame:
God send them sorrow and shame!
That cat specially
That slew so cruelly
My little pretty sparrow
That I brought up at Carrow!
O cat of churlish kind,
The fiend was in thy mind
So traitorously my bird to kill
That never owed thee evil will!
It had a velvet cap,
And would sit upon my lap,
And seek after small wormes,
And sometime whitebread-crumbes;
And many times and oft,
Between my breastes soft
It would lie and rest;
It was proper and prest!
Sometime he would gasp
When he saw a wasp;
A fly, or a gnat,
He would fly at that;
And prettily he would pant
When he saw an ant!
Lord how he would pry
After a butterfly!

Lord, how he would hop
After the grasshop!
And when I said, 'Phip, Phip!'
Then he would leap and skip,
And take me by the lip.
Alas! it will me slo
That Philip is gone me fro!
For Philip Sparrow's soul,
Set in our bead-roll,
Let us now whisper
A Pater noster.

Lauda, anima mea, Dominum!
To weep with me, look that ye come,
All manner of birdés in your kind;
See none be left behind.
To mourning look that ye fall
With dolorous songs funeral,
Some to sing, and some to say,
Some to weep, and some to pray,
Every bird in his lay.
The goldfinch, the wagtail;
The jangling jay to rail,
The fleckéd pie to chatter
Of this dolorous matter;
And Robin Redbreast,
He shall be the priest
The requiem mass to sing,
Softly warbling,
With help of the reed sparrow,
And the chattering swallow,
This hearse for to hallow;
The lark with his long toe;
The spinke, and the martinet also;
The fieldfare, the snite
The crow and the kite;
The raven called Rolfe,
His plain song to sol-fa;
The partridge, the quail;
The plover with us to wail;
The lusty chanting nightingale;
The popinjay to tell her tale,
That toteth oft in a glass,
Shall read the Gospel at mass;
The mavis with her whistle
Shall read there the Epistle.
Our chanters shall be the cuckoo,
The culver, the stockdoo,
With 'peewit' the lapwing,
The Versicles shall sing.

The swan of Maeander,
The goose and the gander,
The duck and the drake,
Shall watch at this wake;
The owl that is so foul,
Must help us to howl;
The heron so gaunt,
And the cormorant,
With the pheasant,
And the gaggling gant,
The dainty curlew,
With the turtle most true.
The peacock so proud,
Because his voice is loud,
And hath a glorious tail,
He shall sing the Grail.

The bird of Araby
That potentially
May never die,
A phoenix it is
This hearse that must bless
With aromatic gums
That cost great sums,
The way of thurification
To make a fumigation,
Sweet of reflare,
And redolent of air,
This corse for to 'cense
With great reverence,
As patriarch or pope
In a black cope.
Whiles he 'censeth the hearse,
He shall sing the verse,
Libera me, Domine!
In do, la, sol, re,
Softly Be-mol
For my sparrow's soul.

And now the dark cloudy night
Chaseth away Phoebus bright,
Taking his course toward the west,
God send my sparrow's soul good rest!
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine!
I pray God, Philip to heaven may fly!
Domine,exaudi orationem meam!
To Heaven he shall, from Heaven he came!
Dominus vobiscum!
Of all good prayers God send him some!
Oremus,
Deus, cui proprium est misereri et parcere,
On Philip's soul have pity!
For he was a pretty cock,
And came of a gentle stock,
And wrapt in a maiden's smock,
And cherished full daintily,
Till cruel fate made him to die;
Alas, for doleful destiny!
Farewell, Philip adieu!
Our Lord, thy soul rescue!
Farewell, without restore,
Farewell for evermore!

Hoyda, Jolly Rutterkin, hoyda!
  Like a rutter hoyda.

Rutterkin is come unto our town
In a cloak without coat or gown,
Save a ragged hood to cover his crown,
  Like a rutter hoyda.

Rutterkin can speak no English,
His tongue runneth all on buttered fish,
Besmeared with grease about his dish,
  Like a rutter hoyda.

Rutterkin shall bring you all good luck,
A stoup of beer up at a pluck,
Till his brain be as wise as a duck,
  Like a rutter hoyda.

What now, let see,
Who looketh on me
Well round about,
How gay and how stout
That I can wear
Courtly my gear.

My hair brusheth
  So pleasantly,
My robe rusheth
  So ruttingly,
Meseem I fly,
  I am so light
To dance delight.

Properly dressed,
  All point devise,
My person pressed
  Beyond all size
Of the new guise,
  To rush it out
In every rout.

  Beyond measure
My sleeve is wide,
  All of pleasure
My hose strait tied,
  My buskin wide
Rich to behold,
  Glittering in gold.

Rutterkin is come, etc.