I

Now Oliver puts his black night-cap on, And every star its glim is hiding, And forth to the heath is the scampsman gone, His matchless cherry-black 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 by his side and his pops in his pocket.

Chorus.

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