Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
England: Vols. I–IV. 1876–79.
Sir Richard Whittingtons Advancement
By Anonymous
H
Of worthy 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.
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 drudgingly.
Turning spitts 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.
Whittington secretly
Towards his country ran,
To purchase liberty.
But as he went along,
In a fair summer’s morne,
Londons bells sweetly rung,
“Whittington, back return!”
“Turn againe, Whittington;
For thou in time shall grow
Lord-Maior of London.”
Whereupon back againe
Whittington came with speed,
A prentise to remaine,
As the Lord had decreed.
(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.”
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,
As is in stories showne.
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.”
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.
No way they could keepe safe;
But by rats borne away,
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.
With their ships loaden so,
Whittingtons wealth began
By this cat thus to grow.
Scullions life he forsooke
To be a murchant good,
And soon began to looke
How well his credit stood.
Shriefe of the citty heere,
And then full quickly rose
Higher, as did appeare.
For to this cities praise,
Sir Richard Whittington
Came to be in his dayes
Thrise Maior of London.
Thousands he lent his king,
To maintaine warres in France,
Glory from thence to bring.
And after, at a feast
Which he the king did make,
He burnt the bonds all in jeast,
And would no money take.
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
Poor people fed with meat,
To shew his charity.
Widdowes sweet comfort found;
Good deeds both far and neere,
Of him do still resound.
Whittington Colledge is
One of his charities;
Records reporteth this
To lasting memories.
For prisoners to live in;
Christs-Church he did repaire,
Christian love for to win.
Many more such like deedes
Were done by Whittington;
Which joy and comfort breedes,
To such as looke thereon.
This flower of charity:
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
To live so in London.