_
(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.
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