And every star its glim[230] is hiding,
And forth to the heath is the scampsman[231] gone,
His matchless cherry-black[232] prancer riding;
Merrily over the common he flies,
Fast and free as the rush of rocket,
His crape-covered vizard drawn over his eyes,
His tol[233] by his side, and his pops[234] in his pocket.
Chorus.
Then who can name
So merry a game,