English poem
Ii
by John Stephen Farmer (1854–1916)
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? He is caught--he must 'stand and deliver'; Then out with the dummy, and off with the bit, Oh! the game of high-toby for ever!
Chorus.
Then who can name So merry a game As the game of all games--high-toby?