An Old Ballad of
WHITTINGTON and his CAT.
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HERE I must tell the praise of worthy Whit-tington,
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Known to be in his days Lord-Mayor of London.
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But of poor parents born was he, we hear,
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And in his youth brought up in Somersetshire
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Poorly then up to London came this simple lad,
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And with a merchant soon a dwelling had:
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And in the kitchen placd, a scullion for to be,
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And a long time he passd his labour drugingly.
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His daily labour was turning spits at the fire,
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To scour pots for a poor scullions hire.
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Meat and drink his pay, of coin he had no store,
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And to run away in secret thus he bore:
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So from the merchant Whittington secretly
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Into the country run, to purchase liberty.
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But as he went along in a fine summers morn,
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London bells sweetly rung, Turn again Whittington
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Evermore sounding so, Turn again Whittington,
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For thou in time shalt be Lord mayor of London,
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Whereupon back came Whittington with speed,
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A servant to remain, as the Lord had decreed.
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Still blessed be the bells, this was the daily song,
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That my Good fortune tell; most sweetly have they rung.
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If God so favours me, I will not be unkind,
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London my Love shall see, and my bounty find.
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But for this happy chance, this scullion had a cat,
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That did his fame advance, and him wealth go.
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Whittington had no more but his poor cat then,
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Which to the ship he bore like a valiant man.
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Venturing the same, says he, I may get store of gold,
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And the Mayor of London be, the bells have me told
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Whittingtons merchandize carried unto the land,
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Troubled with rats and mice as we do understand,
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The king who there reignd, as at dinner sat,
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Daily in fear remaind of many a mouse and rat:
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Meat that on trenchers lay, no way could they keep safe,
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But by rats torn away, fearing no whip or staff.
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Hereupon they brought, Whittingtons fine cat,
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By the king was bought, heaps of gold given for that.
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Home again they hie, with their ship laden so,
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Whittingtons wealth by his cat began to go.
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A scullions life he forsook, to be a merchant good,
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And soon began to look how his credit stood.
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After he was chose Sheriff of the city we hear,
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And then quickly rose, as it doth appear.
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For the citys grace, Sir Richard Whittington,
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Came to be in his days thrice Lord Mayor of Lon-don.
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His Fame to advance, thousands he lent the king
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To maintain war in France, glory from thence bring.
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And after a feast, which he the King did make,
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He burnt the note in Jest, and would no money take
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Prisoners cherishd were, widows comfort found
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Good deeds far and near by him were done,
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Whittingtons College is one of his charities,
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Newgate he built, where many prisoner lies.
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Many more deeds were done by Whittington,
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Which joy and comfort bring to those that look on.
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Somerset, thou hast bred the flower of charity,
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Altho hes dead and gone, yet he lives lastingly.
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Call him back no more to live in London,
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Those bells that calld him back, Turn again Whittington.
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