(To the tune of "_Dainty come thou to me_.")

"Here must I tell the praise
Of worthie 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.

Poorely to London than
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 grudgingly.

His daily service was
Turning spits 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.