The Penguin Book of English Song Read online

  Riche be thy merchauntis in substaunce that excellis;

  Fair be thy wives, right lovesom, white and small;

  Clere be thy virgyns, lusty under kellis2:

  London, thow art the flour of Cities all.

  […]

  JOHN SKELTON

  (?1460–1529)

  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,

  For he will not stop

  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’.

  HERBERT HOWELLS: from In Green Ways, Op. 43, for soprano and piano or orchestra (1928/1929)

  To maystres Margaret Hussey

  [Merry Margaret]1

  Mirry Margaret,2

  As mydsomer flowre,

  Jentill as fawcoun

  Or hawke of the towre:3

  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,

  Far, far passynge

  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.

  RALPH VAUGHAN WILLIAMS: from Five Tudor Portraits, choral suite for alto/mezzo, baritone, SATB and orchestra (1935)

  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’.

  The Tunnyng1 of Elynour Rummynge per Skelton Laureat

  [Ballad: The tunning of Elinor Rumming]

  Tell you I chyll,
<
br />   If that ye wyll

  A whyle be styll,

  Of a comely gyll

  That dwelt on a hyll: […]

  For she is somwhat sage

  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,

  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 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.

  But to make up my tale,

  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 wenches come unlased,

  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 holde the hye waye,

  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 praty Besse

  [Intermezzo: My pretty Bess]1

  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,r />
  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:

  I pray yow be reclaymed,

  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)

  SIR WALTER RALEGH

  (c.1552–1618)

  This Captain Raleigh coming out of Ireland to the English Court in good habit (his Cloaths being then a considerable part of his estate) found the Queen walking, till meeting with a Plashy place, she seemed to scruple going thereon. Presently Raleigh cast and spred his new Plush Cloak on the ground, whereon the Queen trod gently, rewarding him afterwards with many Suits, for his so free and seasonable tender of so fair a foot Cloath.

  THOMAS FULLER: The History of the Worthies of England (1662)

  Born in Devon, the son of a prosperous squire, he ‘spake broad Devonshire to his dying day’ – something that could hardly be guessed from Nicholas Hilliard’s brilliant miniature portrait of him in the National Portrait Gallery, in which he wears an abundance of pearls and lace, and stares at the observer with a wonderfully sultry gaze. A favourite of Queen Elizabeth I, the Virgin Queen after whom he named the American State of Virginia, Ralegh was one of the most versatile men of the Elizabethan Age: explorer, statesman, wit, historian, soldier and poet. He took part in the suppression of the rebels in Munster (1580), which gave him an entrée to Elizabeth’s court. Knighted on 6 January 1585, he rose at a rapid pace through the courtly ranks, helped no doubt by his (possibly apocryphal) chivalrous behaviour described by Thomas Fuller above; but when in 1592 his clandestine marriage to Elizabeth Throckmorton was revealed, he was sent to the Tower. Released after a short period of imprisonment, he retired with his wife and child to his estate at Sherborne Castle in Dorset. The next year he began to convert a Tudor hunting lodge at Sherborne into the mansion that can still be visited today. He lived there for the next decade, interrupting his gentleman’s life by taking part in the Guiana Voyage of 1595, and the Azores Expedition of 1597, accompanied by John Donne and Robert Devereux. He was arrested in 1603 on suspicion of conspiracy to dethrone James, sentenced to death on charges of treason, reprieved and imprisoned in the Tower, where he remained with his wife for over a decade, writing The History of the World. Though he only finished the first volume, which reached as far as 130 BC, he thanked his enemies for imprisoning him: ‘For had it been otherwise, I should hardly have had this leisure to have made myself a fool in print.’