"Clerk of the Bow Bell, With the yellow locks, Thy head shall have knocks!" Then Heywood, seeing the Clerk was all a-quake, The whole of Bread Street. Heywood knew their ways, "Children of Cheape, Hold you all still! Rung at your will!” Loudly they cheered him. Courteously he bowed, "My clochard, sirs, is warm," quavered the Clerk. "Wine!" said Ben. He filled a cup "Both good and bad "Ay, sir, above the hours and days and years, Lingered upon his tongue. "I know them all, FLOS MERCATORUM! That's the Bell of Bow Remembering Richard Whittington. You should hear And cleared his throat. Gregory smiled "You must imagine, sirs, The Clerk, sitting on high, among the clouds, But bells no less, ask that the Bell of Bow Then Gregory Clopton, mellowing all I. Clerk of the Bow Bell, four and twenty prentices, "Children of Cheape," did that old Clerk answer, "You will have a peal, then, for well may you know, All the bells of London remember Richard Whittington When they hear the voice of the big Bell of Bow!"— Clerk with the yellow locks, mellow be thy malmsey! Children of Cheape, did that old Clerk answer, "Whittington! Whittington! O, turn again, Whittington, Flos Mercatorum," mourned the bell of All Hallowes, "There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone!" "Then we all sang," echoed happy St Saviour's, "Called him, and lured him, and made him our own. Told him a tale as he lay upon the hillside, Looking on his home in the meadow-lands below! "Told him a tale," clanged the bell of Cold Abbey ; "Told him the truth," boomed the big Bell of Bow! Told him of a City that was like a blazoned missal-book, Black with oaken gables, carven and inscrolled; Every street a coloured page, and every sign a hieroglyph, Dusky with enchantments, a City paved with gold; VOL, CXCII.-NO. MCLXIV. 20 Clasped with four great clasps, we sung, gates of royal splendour! Take and read it, Whittington, your volume of adventure, "Younger son, younger son, up with stick and bundle!". Even so we rung for him-" But-kneel before you go; Kneel, by your father's grave, in little Pauntley Chancel, Look upon the painted panes that hold your Arms a-glow,— Coat of Gules and Azure; but the proud will not remember it! Kneel you by your father's grave, and look upon your shield, lad! Proudly he answered us, beneath the painted window,— Yet will I remember, yet will I remember, By the chivalry of God, until my day be done, Then he looked to Northward for the painted ships of Bristol; Down along the Mendip dale, the chapmen and their horses, Quick he ran to meet them, stick and bundle on his shoulder! White shaggy horses with their packs of purple spicery, When the chapmen asked of him the bridle-path to Dorset, Merrily shook the silver bells that hung the broidered bridle-rein, Down by little Kimmeridge, and up by Hampshire forest-roads, All the way to London, with packs of wool they went. "London was London, then! A clean, clear moat "O, ay, a silver moat," growled Ben, "Ay, 'tis the fogs that make the sunset red," Ring on!" And, nothing loth, the Clerk resumed : II. Bravely swelled his heart to see the moat of London glittering Then-he gasped as, echoing in by grim black Aldgate, Prentices in red and ray, marchaunts in their saffron, Aldermen in violets, and minstrels in white, Clerks in homely hoods of budge, and wives with crimson wimples, Thronging as to welcome him that happy summer night. "Back," they cried, and "Clear the way," and caught the ringing bridle-reins: "Wait! the Watch is going by this vigil of St John!" Merrily laughed the chapmen then, reining their great white horses back, "When the pageant passes, lad, we'll up and follow on!" There, as thick the crowd surged, beneath the blossomed ale-poles, Swept against his horse by a billow of madcap prentices, Swift he drew her up and up, and throned her there before him, Like a Queen of Faërie on the great pack-saddle. "Hey!" laughed the chapmen, "the prentice wins the prize!" "Whittington! Whittington! the world is all before you!" Like a marching sunset, there, from Leaden Hall to Aldgate, Flared the crimson cressets-O, her brows were haloed then!— Then the stirring steeds went by with all their mounted trumpeters, Then, in ringing harness, a thousand marching men. Marching-marching-his heart and all the halberdiers, And his pulses throbbing with the throbbing of the drums; Marching-marching-his blood and all the burganets! "Look," she cried, "O, look," she cried, "and now the morrice comes !" Dancing-dancing-her eyes and all the Lincoln Green, Robin Hood and Friar Tuck, dancing through the town! "Where is Marian?" Laughingly she turned to Richard Whittington. "Here," he said, and pointed to her own green gown. Dancing-dancing-her heart and all the morrice-bells! Then there burst a mighty shout from thrice a thousand throats! Then, with all their bows bent, and sheaves of peacock arrows, Marched the tall archers in their white silk coats, White silk coats, with the crest of London City Crimson on the shoulder, a sign for all to read,Marching-marching-and then the sworded henchmen, Then, William Walworth, on his great stirring steed. |