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.”