But of poor parentage
Born was he, as we hear,
And in his tender age
Bred up in Lancashire.
Poorly to London then,
Came up this simple lad;
Where, with a merchant-man,
Soon he a dwelling had;
And in a kitchen plac'd,
A scullion for to be;
Where a long time he pass'd
In labour drudgingly.
His daily service was
Turning at the fire;
And to scour pots of brass,
For a poor scullion's hire:
Meat and drink all his pay,
Of coin he had no store;
Therefore to run away,
In secret thought he bore.
So from the merchant-man
Whittington secretly
Towards his country ran,
To purchase liberty.
But as he went along,
In a fair summer's morn,
London's bells sweetly rung
"Whittington back return:"
Evermore sounding so,
"Turn, again, Whittington;
For thou, in time, shalt grow
Lord-mayor of London."
Whereupon, back again
Whittington came with speed,
A servant to remain,
As the Lord had decreed.
Still blessed be the bells,
This was his daily song;
"This my good fortune tells,
Most sweetly have they rung.