What could be dafter
Than John Skelton’s laughter?
What sound more tenderly
Than his pretty poetry?
So where to rank old Skelton?
He was no monstrous Milton,
Nor wrote no Paradise Lost,
So wondered at by most,
Phrased so disdainfully,
Composed so painfully.
He struck what Milton missed,
Milling an English grist
With homely turn and twist.
He was English through and through,
Not Greek, nor French, nor Jew,
Though well their tongues he knew,
The living and the dead:
Learned Erasmus said,
Hic, unum Britannicarum
Lumen et decus literarum.
But oh, Colin Clout!
How his pen flies about,
Twiddling and turning,
Scorching and burning,
Thrusting and thrumming!
How it hurries with humming,
Leaping and running,
At the tipsy-topsy Tunning
Of Mistress Eleanor Rumming!
How for poor Philip Sparrow
Was murdered at Carow,
How our hearts he does harrow!
Jest and grief mingle
In this jangle-jingle,
To sweep nor mop,
To prune nor prop,
To cut each phrase up
Like beef when we sup,
Nor sip at each line
As at brandy-wine,
Or port when we dine.
But angrily, wittily,
Tenderly, prettily,
Laughingly, learnedly,
Sadly, madly.
Helter-skelter John
Rhymes serenely on,
As English poets should.
Old John, you do me good!
ROBERT GRAVES: ‘John Skelton’ (1917)
John Skelton, born some sixty years after Chaucer’s death, was also a court poet for much of his life. There is no one quite like him in the whole of English literature (although his witty juggling with words clearly influenced Edith Sitwell and Stevie Smith), and his verse owes nothing to foreign influences. A classical scholar of distinction, he was created Orator Regius by the universities of Oxford, Louvain and Cambridge. As tutor to Prince Henry (later Henry VIII), he spent much time at court, despite the outspokenness with which he criticized court life, especially in The Bowge of Courte, a satirical allegory on the court of Henry VII. Why Come Ye Nat to Courte contained a withering attack on Cardinal Wolsey, which earned him a term of imprisonment – he later buried the hatchet and joined Wolsey in combating Lutherism, which was beginning to thrive at Cambridge in the 1520s. He took holy orders in 1498, which did not prevent him in Collyn Cloute from fulminating against the decadence of the Church, the ignorance and laxity of the clergy and the poor example set by bishops. His poetry teems with lowly, zany characters, crudities and wit, yet can also be exquisitely tender. His language is characterized by dizzy rhythms and the most original recurring rhymes – indeed, modern scholars have coined the term ‘skeltonic verse’ to describe the sort of breathless doggerel that he so favoured, short lines, usually with three stresses and irregular but persistent rhyme. As he himself wrote (Collyn Cloute, 53–8):
For though my ryme be ragged,
Tattered and jagged,
Rudely rayne-beaten,
Rusty and mothe-eaten,
Yf ye take well therwith,
It hath in it some pyth.
As well as entertaining and abusive satire, he also wrote some charming and tender lyrics, such as those addressed to the Countess of Surrey and Mistress Margaret Hussey. Skelton was highly regarded by many of his contemporaries: Erasmus called him ‘the light and glory of English letters’ and Caxton delighted in his ‘polished and ornate terms’.
With solace and gladnes,
Moche mirthe and no madnes,
All good and no badnes,
So joyously,
So maydenly,
So womanly
Her demenyng
In every thynge,
That I can endyght,
Or suffice to wryght
Of mirry Margarete
As mydsomre flowre,
Jentyll as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre.
As pacient and as styll,
And as full of good wyll
As fair Isaphill4;
Colyaunder,
Sweet pomaunder,
Good Cassaunder5,
Stedfast of thought,
Wele made, wele wrought;
Far may be sought
Erst that ye can fynde
So corteise, so kynde
As mirry Margarete,
This midsomer flowre,
Jentyll as fawcoun
Or hawke of the towre.
The genesis of Five Tudor Portraits is described by Ursula Vaughan Williams in a note that accompanies the EMI recording: ‘One day at a Three Choirs Festival Elgar said to R.V.W., “You should write an oratorio on Elinor Rumming.” This was in the early thirties, and Philip Henderson’s edition of Skelton’s poems had recently appeared. R.V.W. acquired the book at once, and found it much to his liking. The two long poems he chose to set were balanced by three short ones to give dramatic shape to the work.’
Vaughan Williams followed Henderson’s edition closely in matters of orthography and punctuation, but we print here the authentic version published in John Scattergood’s edition from the Penguin English Poets series. Vaughan Williams not only cut many passages [denoted by square brackets] from these long poems (Skelton’s Elynour Rummynge runs to over 600 lines, and Phyllyp Sparowe exceeds 1,350), but also mixed up lines from different parts of the poem. Aware that he was treating the poems in cavalier fashion, he sought to placate the public by appending the following note to the work:
In making a Choral Suite out of the poems of Skelton I have ventured to take some liberties with the text. In doing this I am aware that I have laid myself open to the accusation of cutting out somebody’s ‘favourite bit’. If any omissions are to be made this, I fear, is inevitable. On the whole I have managed to keep all my own ‘favourite bits’, though there are certain passages which I have omitted unwillingly. The omissions are due, partly owing to the great length of the original, partly because some passages did not lend themselves to musical treatment, and partly because certain lines which would sound well when spoken cannot conveniently be sung. I have occasionally, for musical reasons, changed the order of the lines. This seemed to me legitimate as there does not appear to be an inevitable sequence in Skelton’s original order. […] The spelling has been modernized except where the final e is to be sounded.
The five movements are: ‘Ballad: The Tunning of Elinor Rumming’; ‘Intermezzo: My Pretty Bess’; ‘Burlesca: Epitaph on John Jayberd of Diss’; ‘Romanza: Jane Scroop (her lament for Philip Sparrow)’; and ‘Scherzo: Jolly Rutterkin’.
Tell you I chyll,
If that ye wyll
A whyle be styll,
Of a comely gyll
That dwelt on a hyll: […]
And well worne in age,
For her vysage
It woldt aswage
A mannes courage. […]
Droupy and drowsy,
Scurvy and lowsy;
Her face all bowsy2,
Comely crynklyd, […]
Lyke a rost pygges eare,
Brystled with here. […]
Her nose somdele hoked,
And camously croked3,
Never stoppynge,
But ever droppynge;
Her skynne lose and slacke,
Greuyned lyke a sacke;
With a croked backe. […]
Jawed lyke a jetty;
A man wolde have pytty
To se howe she is gumbed,
Fyngered and thumbed,
Gently joynted,
Gresed and anoynted,
Up to the knockles: […]
Lyke as they were with buckels
Togyder made fast.
Her youth is farre past; […]
And yet she wyll jet,
Lyke a joyly fet4
In her furred flocket5,
And graye russet rocket6,
With symper-the-cocket7.
Her huke of Lyncole grene,
It had ben hers, I wene,
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 her selfe gaye
Upon the holy daye,
Whan she doth her aray,
And gyrdeth in her gytes8
Stytched and pranked9 with pletes;
Her kyrtell10 Brystowe red,
With clothes upon her hed
That wey a sowe11 of led,
Wrythen12 in wonder wyse
After the Sarasyns gyse,
With a whym-wham13
Knyt with a trym-tram14
Upon her brayne-pan15,
Lyke an Egypcyan
Lapped about.
Whan she goeth out. […]
And this comely dame,
I understande, her name
Is Elynour Rummynge16,
At home in her wonnynge17;
And, as men say,
She dwelt in Sothray,
In a certayne stede18
Bysyde Lederhede.
She is a tonnysh gyb19,
The devyll and she be syb20.
She breweth noppy21 ale,
And maketh thereof port-sale
To travellars, to tynkers,
To sweters, to swynkers22,
And all good ale drynkers,
That wyll nothynge spare,
But drynke tyll they stare
And brynge them selfe bare23,
With, ‘Now away the mare,
And let us sley care!’
As wyse as an hare!
Come who so wyll
To Elynoure on the hyll,
With, ‘Fyll the cup, fyll!’
And syt there by styll,
Erly and late.
Thyther cometh Kate,
Cysly and Sare,
With theyr legges bare, […]
She ran in all the haste,
Unbrased24 and unlast;
Wyth theyr heles dagged25,
Theyr kyrtelles all to-jagged,
Theyr smockes all to-ragged,
Wyth tytters and tatters,
Brynge dysshes and platters,
With all theyr myght runnynge
To Elynour Rummynge,
To have of her tunnynge.
She leneth them on the same,
And thus begynneth the game.
Some huswyves come unbrased, […]26
Some be flybytten,
Some skewed27 as a kytten; […]
Some have no herelace,
Theyr lockes aboute theyr face, […]
Suche a lewde sorte
To Elynour resorte
From tyde to tyde28.
Abyde, abyde,
And to you shall be tolde
Howe hyr ale is solde
To mawte and to molde29.
Some have no mony
That thyder commy,
For theyr ale to pay;
That is a shreud aray30!
Elynour swered, ‘Nay,
Ye shall not bere awaye
Myne ale for nought,
By hym that me bought!’
With ‘Hey, dogge, hay,’
Have these hogges away!’
With, ‘Get me a staffe,
The swyne eate my draffe31!
Stryke the hogges with a clubbe,
They have dronke up my swyllyng tubbe32!’ […]
Than thydder came dronken Ales
And she was full of tales,
Of tydynges in Wales,
And of Saynte James in Gales33,
And of the Portyngales34;
Wyth, ‘Lo, gossyp, iwys35,
Thus and thus it is,
There hath ben greate war
Betwene Temple Bar
And the Crosse in Chepe,
And thyder came an hepe
Of mylstones in a route36.’
She spake thus in her snout,
Snevelyng in her nose,
As though she had the pose37,
‘Lo, here is an olde typpet38,
And ye wyll gyve me a syppet
Of your stale ale,
God sende you good sale!’ […]
‘This ale’, sayd she, ‘is noppy39;
Let us syppe and soppy,
And not spyll a droppy,
For so mote I hoppy,
It coleth well my croppy40.’ […]
Than began she to wepe,
And forthwith fell on slepe. […]
With, ‘Hey’, and with, ‘Howe,
Syt we downe arowe
And drynke tyll we blowe.’ […]
Nowe in cometh another rabell; […]
And there began a fabell41,
A clatterynge and a babell.
They care not what men saye! […]
Some lothe to be espyde,
Some start in at the backe syde,
Over the hedge and pale42,
And all for the good ale. […]
With, ‘Hey’ and with ‘Howe,
Syt we downe arowe
And drynke tyll we blowe.’ […]
Theyr thurst was so great,
They asked never for mete
But, ‘Drynke,’ styll, ‘Drynke,
And let the cat wynke!
Let us wasshe our gommes
From the drye crommes!’ […]
Some brought a wymble43,
Some brought a thymble, […]
Some brought this and that,
Some brought I wote nere what. […]
And all this shyfte they make
For the good ale sake.
With, ‘Hey’ and with, ‘Howe,
Syt we downe arowe
And drynke tyll we blowe,
And pype tyrly-tyrlowe!’
For my fyngers ytche.
I have wrytten so mytche
Of this mad mummynge
Of Elynour Rummynge!
Thus endeth the gest44
Of this worthy fest.
Quod Skelton Laureat.
My propir Besse,
My praty Besse,
Turne ons agayne to me;
For slepyste thou, Besse,
Or wakeste thow, Besse,
Myne herte hyt ys with the.
My deysy delectabyll,
My prymerose commendabyll,
My vyolet amyabyll,
My joye inexplicabill,
Nowe torne agayne to me.
[I wyl be ferme and stabyll,
And to yow servyceabyll,
And also prophytabyll,
Yf ye be agreabyll,
My propyr Besse
To turne agayne to me.]
Alas! I am dysdayned,
And as a man halfe-maymed,
My harte is so sore payned,
I pray the, Besse, unfayned,
Yet com agayne to me!
Be love I am constreyned
To be with yow retayned,
Hyt wyll not be refrayned:
My propyr Besse,
And torne agayne to me!
My propir Besse,
My praty Besse,
Turne ons agayne to me;
For slepyste thou, Besse,
Or wakeste thow, Besse,
Myne herte hyt ys with the.
(Dring)