The Old Inns of England (Vol. 1&2) - Charles G. Harper

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for her ale if it had been brewed in the way he describes.

      His long, rambling jingles, done in grievous spelling, picture her as a very ugly and filthy old person, with a face sufficiently grotesque to unnerve a strong man:

      For her viságe

       It would aswage

       A manne’s couráge.

       Her lothely lere

       Is nothyng clere,

       But vgly of chere,

       Droupy and drowsy,

       Scuruy and lowsy;

       Her face all bowsy,

       Comely crynkled,

       Woundersly wrynkled,

       Lyke a rost pygges eare

       Brystled wyth here.

       Her lewde lyppes twayne,

       They slauer, men sayne,

       Lyke a ropy rayne:

       A glummy glayre:

       She is vgly fayre:

       Her nose somdele hoked,

       And camously croked,

       Neuer stoppynge,

       But euer droppynge:

       Her skin lose and slacke,

       Grayned like a sacke;

       Wyth a croked backe.

       Her eyen jowndy

       Are full vnsoundy,

       For they are blered;

       And she grey-hered:

       Jawed like a jetty,

       A man would haue pytty

       To se how she is gumbed

       Fyngered and thumbed

       Gently joynted,

       Gresed and annoynted

       Vp to the knockels;

       The bones of her huckels

       Lyke as they were with buckles

       Together made fast;

       Her youth is farre past.

       Foted lyke a plane,

       Legged lyke a crane;

       And yet she wyll iet

       Lyke a silly fet.

       ····· Her huke of Lincoln grene, It had been hers I wene, More than fourty yere; And so it doth apere. For the grene bare thredes Loke lyke sere wedes, Wyddered lyke hay, The woll worne away: And yet I dare saye She thinketh herselfe gaye. ····· She dryueth downe the dewe With a payre of heles As brode as two wheles; She hobles as a gose Wyth her blanket trose Ouer the falowe: Her shone smered wyth talowe, Gresed vpon dyrt That bandeth her skyrt.

      ELYNOR RUMMYNG.

      And this comely dame

       I vnderstande her name

       Is Elynor Rummynge,

       At home in her wonnynge:

       And as men say,

       She dwelt in Sothray,

       In a certain stede

       Bysyde Lederhede,

       She is a tonnysh gyb,

       The Deuyll and she be syb,

       But to make vp my tale,

       She breweth nappy ale,

       And maketh port-sale

       To travelers and tynkers,

       To sweters and swynkers,

       And all good ale-drynkers,

       That wyll nothynge spare,

       But drynke tyll they stare

       And brynge themselves bare,

       Wyth, now away the mare

       And let vs sley care

       As wyse as a hare.

       Come who so wyll

       To Elynor on the hyll

       Wyth Fyll the cup, fyll

       And syt there by styll.

       Erly and late

       Thyther cometh Kate

       Cysly, and Sare

       Wyth theyr legges bare

       And also theyr fete.

       ····· Some haue no mony For theyr ale to pay, That is a shrewd aray; Elynor swered, Nay, Ye shall not beare away My ale for nought, By hym that me bought! Wyth, Hey, dogge, hey, Haue these hogges away[10] Wyth, Get me a staffe, The swyne eate my draffe! Stryke the hogges wyth a clubbe, They haue dranke up my swyllyn tubbe.

      The unlovely Elynor scraped up all manner of filth into her mash-tub, mixed it together with her “mangy fists,” and sold the result as ale. It is proverbial that “there is no accounting for tastes,” and it would appear as though the district had a peculiar liking for this kind of brew. They would have it somehow, even if they had to bring their food and furniture for it:

      Insteede of quoyne and mony,

       Some bryng her a coney,

       And some a pot wyth honey;

       Some a salt, some a spoone,

       Some theyr hose, some theyr shoone;

       Some run a good trot

       Wyth skyllet or pot:

       Some fyll a bag-full

       Of good Lemster wool;

       An huswyfe of trust

       When she is athyrst

       Such a web can spyn

       Her thryft is full thyn.

       Some go strayght thyther

       Be it slaty or slydder,

       They hold the hyghway;

       They care not what men say,

       Be they as be may

       Some loth to be espyd,

       Start in at the backesyde,

       Over hedge and pale,

       And all for good ale.

       Some brought walnuts,

       Some apples, some pears,

       And some theyr clyppying shears.

       Some brought this and that,

       Some brought I wot ne’re what,

       Some brought theyr husband’s hat.

      and so forth, for hundreds of lines more.

      The old inn—still nothing more than an ale-house—is in part as old as the poem, but has been so patched and repaired in all the intervening centuries that nothing of any note is to be seen within. A very old pictorial sign, framed and glazed, and fixed against the wall of the gable, represents the ill-favoured landlady, and is inscribed: “Elynor Rummyn dwelled here, 1520.”

      Accounts we have of the fourteenth-century inns show that the exclusive, solitary Englishman was not then allowed to exist. Guests slept in dormitories, very much as the inmates of common lodging-houses generally do now, and, according to the evidence of old prints, knew nothing of nightshirts, and lay in bed naked. They purchased their food in something the same way as a modern “dosser” in a Rowton House, but their manners and customs were peculiarly offensive. The floors were strewed with rushes; and as guests generally threw their leavings there, and the rushes themselves were not frequently removed, those old interiors must have been at times exceptionally noisome.

      Inn-keepers charged such high prices for this accommodation,

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