I

Now Oliver puts his black night-cap on, [1]
And every star its glim is hiding, [2]
And forth to the heath is the scampsman gone, [3]
His matchless cherry-black prancer riding; [4]
Merrily over the Common, he flies,
Fast and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,
His tol by his side and his pops in his pocket. [5]

_Chorus_.

Then who can name
So merry a game,
As the game of all games--high-toby? [6]

II

The traveller hears him, away! away!
Over the wide, wide heath he scurries;
He heeds not the thunderbolt summons to stay,
But ever the faster and faster he hurries,

But what daisy-cutter can match that black tit? [7]
He is caught--he must 'stand and deliver';
Then out with the dummy, and off with the bit, [8]
Oh! the game of high-toby for ever!