So from this marchant-man
Whittington secretly
Towards his country ran,
To purchase liberty.
But as he went along
In a fair summer's morne,
London 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,
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,