Jolly Jankin
‘Kyrie’, so ‘kyrie’,
Jankin syngeth merie
With ‘aleyson’.
As I went on Yole day
In our prosessyon
Knew I joly Jankin
Be his mery ton:
Kyrieleyson.
Jankin began the Offis
On the Yole day,
And yet me thynketh it dos me good,
So merie gan he say
‘Kyrieleyson’.
Jankin red the Pistil
Ful fair and ful wel,
And yet me thinketh it dos me good,
As ever have I sel.
Kyrieleyson.
Jankin at the Sanctus
Craketh a merie note,
And yet me thinketh it dos me good –
I payed for his cote.
Kyrieleyson.
Jankin craketh notes
An hundred on a knot,
And yet he hakketh hem smaller
Than wortes to the pot.
Kyrieleyson.
Jankin at the Angnus
Bereth the pax-brede,
He twynkeled, but sayd nought,
And on myn foot he trede.
Kyrieleyson.
Benedicamus domino,
Crist fro schame me schilde.
Deo gracias therto –
Alas, I go with childe!
Kyrieleyson.
See end of this article for a glossary.
This late medieval carol, by our old friend Anon, has a jaunty air – and probably was, originally, a jaunty air. Melodious even without its vanished tune, Jolly Jankin reminds us that medieval verse was written to be heard. Literacy was rare. And reading aloud, privately or publicly, was a favourite pastime. “In all ranks of society, whether literate or not, it was customary for books to be read aloud,” write the editors of The Oxford Book of Medieval English Verse (1970). “Criseyde, though she knew how to read, had The Siege of Thebes read to her by a maid, presumably one with special skills. At Havelok’s coronation, professional entertainers regaled the public by ‘roman-reading on the book’.” Rhyme, rhythm and refrain, the three Rs of oral poetry, pleased the speaker’s tongue and the listener’s ear – and aided the memory of all participants.
Because the verses have such a light touch, it’s hard to gauge how seriously anticlerical they are. Jankin is one of that breed of corrupt clerics whose stereotype was comedy gold for the medieval satirist. He may possibly be a Pardoner, as in Chaucer’s tale. The poem’s narrator, perhaps to be identified with the “Alison” whose name gives rise to the merry pun on “eleison”, remarks at one point, “I payed for his cote”, an indication he could have tricked her into buying an overpriced indulgence. She exposes Jankin as a flirt and a fake, while apparently extolling his charms. She’s a knowing player in the poet’s comic cast.
Jankin is portrayed as a performer, even though the performance is holy mass. Alison claims to be tickled pink by his florid, showy singing. But when he winks at her and treads on her foot, it’s clear his seduction technique is actually quite basic.
The little adventure ends with Alison’s pregnancy. And this is probably part of the joke – not a good joke, if you’re the deserted woman, but a fitting conclusion to an unromantic tale of a pardoner and his mistress. Jolly Jankin is effective as a piece of bawdy, satirical entertainment. As a fallen woman’s lament, it’s not quite convincing.
English patois and Latin mingled happily in medieval verse, as this interesting examination of the carol and its historical context explains. Neatly woven into the verses, the fragments from the liturgy produce a dialogic effect, the Latin or Greek commenting on the English, or vice versa. In the opening chorus, “So” – used not as intensifier but to mean “thus” or “in this way” – separates the two Greek “Kyries” and amusingly draws attention to the clash of sacred/secular values.
In the last verse, that quick switch from the Latin to the vernacular (“Benedicamus Domino, / Crist fro schame me schilde”) retains the narrative playfulness. “Let us bless the Lord, Christ shield me from shame” is a combination of opposite reactions, as well as different lexicons. They can coexist only in a comic partnership. The subtext hinted throughout is that this couple were getting up to no good while the mass was going on.
You can imagine the medieval performer cracking the notes of Jolly Jankin with a virtuosity pitched towards farce, and his audience lustily chorusing the “Kyrieleisons”. More suited to the pagan carnival than the Christian festival, as a carol it has understandably faded from the repertoire. People generally prefer the sentimental Victorian evergreens, once-in-royalling and away-in-a-mangering till kingdom come. They have their place, but for me it’s the medieval carols that are thrilling. They sparkle with energy and freshness, like Buck’s Fizz on the morning after. And they connect us to the bright and bustling past, which should never, ever be dismissed as “another country”.
Jolly Jankin epitomises the mixed-up informality of medieval religious manners. As the literary historian of the earlier link reminds us, “Dancing carols in the churchyard and oogling clerics in church were two activities medieval women were encouraged to confess.” You may be sure that, even if this particular Jankin and Alison were figments of a lively and blasphemous imagination, there were plenty of assignations in the festive air. As for the idea that the couple were at it during mass, I leave the last word on that to the mass-goers among us.
Of course, the poem could have been intended as a moral warning. But nothing about its rhythm or language suggests a sermon, or even honest piety. I suspect it’s unadulterated mischief.
Glossary
Kýrie, eléison (Gk.) – “Lord, have mercy.”
Aleyson – woman’s name, punning on “eleison”
Yole – Yule, Christmas
Be his mery ton – by his merry tone
Offis – the office, the Introit to the mass
Pistil - epistle
As ever have I sel – as I hope always to be happy
Craketh a merrie note – sings divisions, quick short notes
On a knot – in a phrase or cluster
Wortes to the pot – herbs for the pot
Pax-brede - a silver disc, kissed during the mass
Twynkeled – winked
Benedicamus Domino – “Let us bless the Lord”
Deo Gracias therto – “Thanks be to God” as well.
