| COME listen all, both great and small,
Of high and low degree;
That ye may know this true story
And live in charity.
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| As wealth by waste and idle taste
Soon falls to penury,
So small estate becometh great
By luck and industry.
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| Content then be in poverty,
In wealth of humble mind;
Like children of one family
To one another kind.
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| The venture
of the merchant | This merchant now in foreign parts
A venture fain would make;
And all the folk of his household
Were free to share the stake.
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| joined by
each of his
domestics. | One risk’d a shilling, one a groat,
And one a coin of gold;
And every one his stake anon
To the ship’s captain told.
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| Dick’s jesting
offer | Then half in jest, and half in shame,
Dick fetch’d his kitten down:
“I too,” he to the captain cried,
“Will venture all my own.”
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| to the surprise
of all | The servants laugh’d: Dick would have wept,
And therefore laugh’d the more;
But soon they stared for wonderment
Who laugh’d so loud before.
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| taken in
earnest by
the Captain. | For now the Captain, “Done,” he cried,
“A bargain by my fay:”
And call’d the ship’s-mate in a trice,
To stow the cat away.
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| The cat is
taken aboard. | He came so quick, no time had Dick
To countervail his joke:
So all aboard poor Puss was stored
Among the sea-going folk.
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| The ship
sails. | Now from her mooring, all ataut,
Put off at turn of tide,
Adown the river’s ebbing flood
The gallant bark did glide.
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| And, like some heavenward-soaring bird,
She faced the open seas;
And seem’d as sick of land to spread
Her wings before the breeze.
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| The cat at
sea. | Then, as she flew, Puss fetch’d a mew,
As if to say—poor me!
To think that I a land-bred cat
Should thus be press’d to sea!
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| But, ere a week was past and gone,
He changed this plaintive tone,
And, like a jolly sailor-boy,
Purr’d gaily up and down.
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| For lean and fat a ship-board cat
He found hath both to spare;
And legs by hosts for rubbing posts
Are always lounging there.
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| And then he oft would run aloft,
And just look out to sea;
Nor e’er a boy could scream ahoy
In shriller note than he.
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| The ship’s
course. | The fresh wind blew; the light bark flew,
And clear’d the channel’s mouth;
Through Biscay’s bay then cut her way,
And bore towards the South.
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| Bound for
Africa.
| For she was bound for Afric ground,
Where wretched negroes dwell;
Who waste their days in idle ways,
As I am loth to tell.
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| Nathless the soil withouten toil
God’s gracious bounty yields;
And gum drops free from every tree
Along the sunny fields.
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| And we are told how dust of gold
Stains all the river sands:
And huge beasts shed their ivory tusks
About the desert lands.
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| The unthriftiness
of
the negroes. | Now what is not with trouble got
Is seldom kept with care:
For foresight and economy
To idlesse strangers are.
|
| So these poor souls their goodly stores,
Not needed for the day,
For trifles and for tromperie
They barter all away.
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| The ship
sails past the
cape of St.
Vincent; | Three days, three nights our gallant ship
Her southward course had steer’d,
When o’er her larboard at the dawn
Saint Vincent’s cape appear’d.
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| Still southward yet three days three nights
Her steady prow she bore;
But when again Sol gilt the main
Was spied Marocco’s shore.
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| anchors off
the coast of
Marocco. | Now shouts of joy and busy noise
Salute the rising day:
The coast was made, the ship was stay’d,
And anchor’d in the bay.
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| As when a stranger hawk, that long
Hath soar’d in middle air,
Borne earthward on a tree alights,
And makes his station there;
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| The myriad tenants of the grove
Would fain his purpose know;
And flock around, yet hold aloof
For fear to meet a foe:
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| The wonderment
of
the negroes. | ’Twas thus the negroes throng’d the beach,
To view a ship at sea:
While some drew down their light canoes;
What mote the strange bark be?
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| Or friend—or foe? They long’d to know,
Yet durst not venture near:
Till soon the boat was all afloat,
And off to lay their fear.
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| Their king
and queen | Afront were seen a king and queen,
Whom all the rest obey’d:
And all the good things of the land
Belong’d to them, ’twas said.
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| invited by
the Captain | Which when the captain heard, and how
They had an ample hoard,
Their companie requested he
To dine with him on board.
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| go on board. | Now, wafted o’er the azure lake,
The king and eke his queen,
Behold them seated on the deck:
The captain sat between.
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| Puss salutes
his Majesty
after European
fashion. | But ere the dinner it was served,
While yawn’d the king for meat,
Just to divert the royal mind,
Puss rubb’d against his feet.
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| Now you must know the royal toe
It ticklish was to touch:
But Puss rubb’d he so daintily,
The king he liked it much.
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| Then to his bride he spake aside,
And e’en was speaking yet,
When lo!—the platter came,—whereat
The rest he did forget.
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| The dinner. | Now both did eat their fill of meat,
As suiteth royalty:
No lack was there of the ship’s best fare,
And grog flow’d copiously.
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| Puss joins
the carousal, | And both did quaff, and both did laugh,
And both sang merrily:
Till Puss could stay no more away,
But came to join the glee.
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| his pleasantry. | His tail he whisk’d, and leapt and frisk’d,
As he was wont before:
Whereat the king and eke the queen
For very mirth did roar.
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| The royal
whim | Then up he gat, and sware an oath—
That, for so droll a thing,
In barter, of his choicest goods
A shipload he would bring.
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| indulged at
much cost. | Thereat the captain—“Done,” he cried
“A bargain by my fay!”
And sent his whole ship’s-company
To fetch the goods away.
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| A merry
night. | Now laugh’d the king and laugh’d the Queen,
And laugh’d the captain he:
A bargain struck at festive board
Doth please so mightily.
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| The goods were brought, the ship was fraught,
And stow’d away full tight.
The king and queen, they drank till e’en,
And slept on board that night.
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| The next
morning. | The captain rose at early dawn
And call’d to th’ king anon:
“This cat is thine, this cargo’s mine;
And now I must begone.”
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| The king awoke and waked the queen,
Who slept so heavily,
That full ten minutes pass’d away,
Before that she could see.
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| The king’s
maudlin
humour. | Then clasping Puss within her arms
She nursed him like a child.
The king his humour now was sad;
Nathless the monarch smiled.
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| The king
and queen
depart with
puss. | Then down the vessel’s side he stepp’d,
And down the queen stepp’d she.
And Puss was handed down perforce
To join their company.
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| Alongside lay the king’s canoe,
Well mann’d with negroes ten;
Who swift row’d off the royal pair,
With Puss all snug between.
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| The ship
weighs
anchor, | Then sung the Captain—“all hand’s up,
The anchor haul amain:
Unfurl the sails, and point the prow
For British lands again.”
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| and sails
homeward.
| Tis done: from out the tranquil bay
Our goodly vessel glides;
And, homeward bound, on Ocean’s back
Right gallantly she rides.
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| Dick’s whole
estate. | NOW when the merchant gave to Dick
That kitten for his own,
No thing he had alive or dead
On earth save it alone.
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| His regret at
its loss; | And so enamour’d had he grown
Of this his property,
That sooth his heart did sorely smart
When Puss was sent to sea.
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| His melancholy
vein, | Then all was lonely as before;
Again he rued his plight:
He moped in solitude all day,
And lay awake all night.
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| and wayward
fancy. | So dismal and so desolate
The granary now it seem’d,
He long’d in the green fields to be,
And where the sunshine gleam’d.
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|
He deserts
his trust, | Alas! how weak our nature is
Its cravings to resist:
For Dick betray’d his master’s trust
To follow his own list.
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| and wanders
into the
fields. | He stroll’d abroad into the fields,
He knew not where nor why;
Regardless of his duty quite
About the granary.
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| The Lord
Mayor’s day. | Now as it chanced the new Lord Mayor
Of London, that same day,
To meet the king at Westminster
In state had ta’en his way.
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| Bow bells
| With such a charge the city-barge
Did proudly flaunt along:
And the bells of Bow were nothing slow
To greet him with—ding, dong.
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| heard by
Dick. | While truant Dick all sad and sick
Was wandering in despair,
Hark! hark! the music of Bow-bells
Came wafted on the air.
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|
What they
seemed to
say. | They seem’d to say—Turn Whit-ting-ton:
Again turn Whit-ting-ton:
And when he listen’d still, they said—
Lord May-or of Lon-don.
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| Again he heard the self-same words
Repeated by the chimes;
Yet trusted not, till he had heard
The same an hundred times.
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| His repentance
and
return. | “It must be so: and I will go
Back to my granary.
Oh shame! to be so false while he
Was true and kind to me.”
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| He turn’d, and reach’d the granary
Before the fall of day:
And not a living soul e’er knew
That he had run away.
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| his good
resolves, | This foolish prank he sorely rued;
But now that it was o’er,
And he all right again, he vow’d
He ne’er would do so more.
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|
rewarded by
peace of
mind. | And so that night in peace he slept,
And so to joy he rose:
But while he slept, he thought he trod
Upon the Lord Mayor’s toes.
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| His prophetic
dream. | Patience—patience! my little boy;
Take heed to save your skin:
The Lord Mayor is a portly man,
And thou but small and thin.
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| Beware of cage, beware of cat
That tails hath three times three:
For he may strip, and he may whip,
And he may ’mprison thee.
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| All in his sleep this sage advice
Seem’d whisper’d to his ear:
Nathless right on the Lord Mayor’s toe
He stood withouten fear.
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| A visiter
| Again the day had pass’d away,
And night was creeping o’er,
When such a knock as mote him shock
Was thunder’d at his door.
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|
brings tidings
of his
luck. | “Hallo! hallo! why batter so?”
In trembling voice he sung:
Whereat wide-open flew the door,
And in the Captain sprung.
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| “Good luck, good luck! my jolly buck!
Why whimper there and whine?
Cheer up now Maister Whittington,
For—all the cargo’s thine.”
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| His incredulity. | But Dick was so much used to woe,
He dared not trust on weal:
Nor had he zest to point a jest
To rouse the sailor’s peal.
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| The congratulations
of the household. | Till soon the household made aware
Came rattling at the door,
And greeted Maister Whittington,
Who was poor Dick before.
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| They led him forth a man of worth,
And humbly call’d him Sire;
And placed him in a huge arm-chair
Before the merchant’s fire.
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| The good man heard the rumour’d word
And eke his daughter fair;
And both ran straight to where he sate
All in this huge arm-chair.
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| ’Twas then the merchant laugh’d aloud,
And then the maiden smiled:
And then the servants bow’d to him
They had before reviled.
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| The virtue
of riches. | For Poverty may blameless be,
Yet is an unblest thing;
And wealth, for all that good men preach,
Doth sure obeisance bring.
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| This truth found Dick, who grew full quick
Into an honour’d man;
Yet was he loth to let his luck
Abide where it began.
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| His active
industry, | So join’d he jolly venturers
In every good emprise;
It was no niggard share he staked
In all their argosies.
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|
rewarded. | All lucky he came off at sea;
But luckier far on land,
Whenas the merchant’s daughter fair
Gave him her heart and hand.
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| His honours. | Next he became an Alderman,
And Lord Mayor before long:
And then—oh! how the bells of Bow
Did greet him with ding-dong.
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| E’en on that day they seem’d to say
Lord May-or of Lon-don:
But when he listen’d still they said
Sir Rich-ard Whit-ting-ton.
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| His charity.
| Then thought he on the luckless lad
That swept the granary floor;
Nor ever in the pride of wealth
Did he forget the poor.
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| And so God save our good Lord Mayor,
And give him wealth and wit:
But never let a prentice-lad
Dick Whittington forget.
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