HERE must I tell the praise | |
| Of worthy Whittington, | |
| Known to be in his dayes | |
| Thrice Maior of London. | |
| But of poor parentage | 5 |
| Borne was he, as we heare, | |
| And in his tender age | |
| Bred up in Lancashire. | |
| |
| Poorely to London than | |
| Came up this simple lad, | 10 |
| Where with a marchant-man | |
| Soone he a dwelling had; | |
| And in a kitchen plast, | |
| A scullion for to be, | |
| Whereas long time he past | 15 |
| In labour drudgingly. | |
| |
| His daily service was | |
| Turning spitts at the fire; | |
| And to scour pots of brasse, | |
| For a poore scullions hire. | 20 |
| Meat and drinke all his pay, | |
| Of coyne he had no store; | |
| Therefore to run away, | |
| In secret thought he bore. | |
| |
| So from this marchant-man, | 25 |
| Whittington secretly | |
| Towards his country ran, | |
| To purchase liberty. | |
| But as he went along, | |
| In a fair summer’s morne, | 30 |
| Londons bells sweetly rung, | |
| “Whittington, back return!” | |
| |
| Evermore sounding so, | |
| “Turn againe, Whittington; | |
| For thou in time shall grow | 35 |
| Lord-Maior of London.” | |
| Whereupon back againe | |
| Whittington came with speed, | |
| A prentise to remaine, | |
| As the Lord had decreed. | 40 |
| |
| “Still blessed be the bells”; | |
| (This was his daily song) | |
| “They my good fortune tells, | |
| Most sweetly have they rung. | |
| If God so favour me, | 45 |
| I will not proove unkind; | |
| London my love shall see, | |
| And my great bounties find.” | |
| |
| But see his happy chance! | |
| This scullion had a cat, | 50 |
| Which did his state advance, | |
| And by it wealth he gat. | |
| His maister ventred forth, | |
| To a land far unknowne, | |
| With marchandize of worth, | 55 |
| As is in stories showne. | |
| |
| Whittington had no more | |
| But this poor cat as than, | |
| Which to the ship he bore, | |
| Like a brave marchant-man. | 60 |
| “Vent’ring the same,” quoth he, | |
| “I may get store of golde, | |
| And Maior of London be, | |
| As the bells have me told.” | |
| |
| Whittington’s marchandise, | 65 |
| Carried was to a land | |
| Troubled with rats and mice, | |
| As they did understand. | |
| The king of that country there, | |
| As he at dinner sat, | 70 |
| Daily remain’d in fear | |
| Of many a mouse and rat. | |
| |
| Meat that in trenchers lay, | |
| No way they could keepe safe; | |
| But by rats borne away, | 75 |
| Fearing no wand or staff. | |
| Whereupon, soone they brought | |
| Whittingtons nimble cat; | |
| Which by the king was bought; | |
| Heapes of gold giv’n for that. | 80 |
| |
| Home againe came these men | |
| With their ships loaden so, | |
| Whittingtons wealth began | |
| By this cat thus to grow. | |
| Scullions life he forsooke | 85 |
| To be a murchant good, | |
| And soon began to looke | |
| How well his credit stood. | |
| |
| After that he was chose | |
| Shriefe of the citty heere, | 90 |
| And then full quickly rose | |
| Higher, as did appeare. | |
| For to this cities praise, | |
| Sir Richard Whittington | |
| Came to be in his dayes | 95 |
| Thrise Maior of London. | |
| |
| More his fame to advance, | |
| Thousands he lent his king, | |
| To maintaine warres in France, | |
| Glory from thence to bring. | 100 |
| And after, at a feast | |
| Which he the king did make, | |
| He burnt the bonds all in jeast, | |
| And would no money take. | |
| |
| Ten thousand pound he gave | 105 |
| To his prince willingly, | |
| And would not one penny have; | |
| This in kind curtesie. | |
| God did thus make him great, | |
| So would he daily see | 110 |
| Poor people fed with meat, | |
| To shew his charity. | |
| |
| Prisoners poore cherish’d were, | |
| Widdowes sweet comfort found; | |
| Good deeds both far and neere, | 115 |
| Of him do still resound. | |
| Whittington Colledge is | |
| One of his charities; | |
| Records reporteth this | |
| To lasting memories. | 120 |
| |
| Newgate he builded faire, | |
| For prisoners to live in; | |
| Christs-Church he did repaire, | |
| Christian love for to win. | |
| Many more such like deedes | 125 |
| Were done by Whittington; | |
| Which joy and comfort breedes, | |
| To such as looke thereon. | |
| |
| Lancashire, thou hast bred | |
| This flower of charity: | 130 |
| Though he be gon and dead | |
| Yet lives he lastingly. | |
| Those bells that call’d him so, | |
| “Turne again, Whittington,” | |
| Call you back many moe | 135 |
| To live so in London. | |
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