‘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. After that he was chose 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. More his fame to advance, 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. Ten thousand pound he gave To his prince willingly, And would not one penny have. This in kind courtesie. God did thus make him great, So would he daily see Poor people fed with meat, To shew his charity. Prisoners poore cherish’d were, 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. Newgate he builded faire, For prisoners to live in; Christ’s 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.