A song of Sir Richard Whittington, who by strange fortunes came to bee thrice Lord Maior of London; with his bountifull guifts and liberallity given to this honourable Citty.

  (To the tune of “Dainty come thou to me.”)

  “Here must I tell the praise
    Of worthie Whittington,
  Known to be in his dayes
    Thrice Maior of London. 
  But of poor parentage
    Borne was he, as we heare,
  And in his tender age
    Bred up in Lancashire.

  Poorely to London than
    Came up this simple lad,
  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
    In labour grudgingly.

  His daily service was
    Turning spits at the fire;
  And to scour pots of brasse,
    For a poore scullions hire. 
  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
    Whittington secretly
  Towards his country ran,
    To purchase liberty. 
  But as he went along
    In a fair summer’s morne,
  London bells sweetly rung,
  ‘Whittington, back return!’

  ’Evermore sounding so,
    Turn againe, Whittington;
  For thou in time shall grow
    Lord-Maior of London.’ 
  Whereupon back againe
    Whittington came with speed,
  Aprentise to remaine,
    As the Lord had decreed.

  ‘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,
    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,
  Which did his state advance,
    And by it wealth he gat. 
  His maister ventred forth,
    To a land far unknowne,
  With marchandize of worth,
    And is in stories shewne.

  Whittington had no more
    But this poor cat as than,
  Which to the ship he bore,
    Like a brave marchant-man. 
  ‘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,
    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,
  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,
    Fearing no wand or staff. 
  Whereupon, soone they brought
    Whittington’s nimble cat;
  Which by the king was bought;
    Heapes of gold giv’n for that.

  Home againe came these men
    With their ships loaden so;
  Whittington’s wealth began
    By this cat thus to grow. 
  Scullions life he forsooke
    To be a marchant good,
  And soon began to looke
    How well his credit stood.