Londons Glory, and Whittingtons Renown
OR,
A Looking-Glass for Citizens of LONDON.
Being a Remarkable Story, how Sir Richard Whittington (a poor Boy bred up
in Lancashire) came to be three times Lord Mayor of London in three several
Kings Reigns, and how his rise was by a Cat, which he sent for a Venture be-
yond Sea. Together with his Bountiful Gifts and Liberality given to this
Honourable City: And the vast Sums of Money he lent the King to maintain
the Wars in France. And how at a great Feast to which he invited the
King, the Queen, and the Nobility, He Generously Burnt the Writings,
and freely forgave his Majesty the whole Debt.
Tune of, Dainty come thou to me.
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BRave London Prentices,
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come listen to my Song,
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Tis for your glory all,
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and to you doth belong,
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And you poor Country Lads,
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though born of low degree
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See by gods providence,
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what you in time may bee,
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Hear must I tell the praise,
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of worthy whittington,
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Known to be in his dayes,
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thrice Lord Mayor of London,
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But of poore parentage,
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born was he as we heare,
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And in his tender age,
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bred up in Lancashire.
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Prooly to London, then,
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came up this Simple lad,
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Where with a Marchant-man,
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soon he a dwelling had,
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And in a Kitchen placd
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a Scullion for to be,
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Where a long time he past,
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in drudging slavery.
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His dayly service was,
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turning Spitts at the fire,
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And to scour potts of Brass,
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for a poore Scullions hire,
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A sharp Cook Maid there was,
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that beat him day by day,
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Which made him in his mind,
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think for to run away.
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So from the Marchant-man,
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Whittington secretly,
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Towards his Country ran,
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to gaine his liberty,
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But as he went along,
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in a faire Summers morn,
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Londons Bells sweetly rung,
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Whittington back return.
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Evermore sonndiry so,
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turn again Whittington,
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And thou in time shall be,
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Lord Mayor of London
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Whereupon badk againe,
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Whittington came with speed,
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A prentice to remaine
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as the Lord had decreed.
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Still blessed be the Bells,
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this was his daily Song,
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Which my good fortune tells,
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most sweetly have they rung.
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If God so favour me,
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I will not prove unkind;
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London my Love shall see,
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and my large bounties find.
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But see this happy chance,
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Whittington had a Cat,
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Which he a venture sent
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and got his wealth by that.
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For from Foreign Land
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where Rats & Mice abound.
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They brought him for his Cat
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many a fair thousand pound.
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When as they home were come
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with their Ship Laden so,
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Whittingtons wealth began,
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by this Cat thus to grow:
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Scullions life he forsook,
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to be a Merchant good,
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And soon he began to look,
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how well his credit stood.
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Soon after he was chose
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Sheriff of the City here,
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And then he quickly rose
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higher as did appear.
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For to this Citys praise,
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Sir Richard Whittington,
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Came to be in his days,
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thrice Lord Mayor of London.
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More his fame to advance,
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thousands he lent his King,
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To maintain Wars in France
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honour from thence to bring.
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And after at a Feast,
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which he the King did make
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Burnt the Bonds as a jest
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and would no money take.
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Ten thousand pound he gave,
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to his Prince willingly,
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And would no penny have
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for his kind courtesie:
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As God thus made him great,
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so he would daily see,
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Poor people fed with meat,
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to shew his Charity.
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Prisoners poor, Cherisht were,
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widows sweet, comfort found,
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Good deeds both far and near
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of him do still resound:
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Whittingtons Colledge is
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one of his Charities,
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And a fair Church he built
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to lasting memories.
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New-gate he builded fair,
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for Prisoners to lye in;
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Christs Church he did repair,
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Christian love for to win.
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Many more such like deeds,
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were done by Whittington,
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Which joy and comfort breeds
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to all that look thereon.
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Let all brave Citizens
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who do this story read,
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By his example learn,
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always the poor to feed,
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What is lent to the Poor,
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the Lord will sure repay,
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And Blessings keep in store
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until the latter day.
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Lancashire thou hast bred,
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this flower of Charity,
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Though he be dead and gone,
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yet lives his Memory.
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Those Bells that calld him so,
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turn again Whittington,
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Would they call many moe
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such men to fair LONDON.
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