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]