Therefore to run away, In secret thought he bore. So from this marchant-man, In a fair summer's morne, Londons 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, A prentise 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, To a land far unknowne, 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, 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 Whittingtons nimble cat; Which by the king was bought; Home againe came these men After that he was chose Sir Richard Whittington 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 And would not one penny have; This in kind curtesie. God did thus make him great, Prisoners poore cherish'd were, Newgate he builded faire, 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. Lancashire, thou hast bred Those bells that call'd him so, To live so in London. Anonymous. WH KENSINGTON GARDENS. HERE Kensington high o'er the neighboring lands Here, while the town in damps and darkness lies, Here England's daughter, darling of the land, Formed to gain hearts, that Brunswick's cause denied, And charm a people to her father's side. Long have these groves to royal guests been known, Nor Nassau first preferred them to a throne. Ere Norman banners waved in British air, Ere lordly Hubba with the golden hair Poured in his Danes, ere elder Julius came, |