/ · John S. Farmer’s Canting Songs and Slang Rhymes
            The Game Of High Toby
               
            
            The Game Of High Toby
               1834
            
            
By W. HARRISON AINSWORTH in Rookwood.
            
            I
            
            Now Oliver puts his black night-cap on, 
1 the moon
              And every star its glim is hiding, 
2 light
            And forth to the heath is the scampsman gone, 
3 highwayman
              His matchless cherry-black prancer riding; 
4 black horse
            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 sword; pistols
            
                     Chorus.
            
                Then who can name
                So merry a game,
            As the game of all games—high-toby? 
6 high-way robbery
            
            
            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 fleet horse; horse
              He is caught—he must ‘stand and deliver’;
            Then out with the dummy, and off with the bit, 
8 pocketbook
              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?
            
            
            III
            
            Believe me, there is not a game, my brave boys,
              To compare with the game of high-toby;
            No rapture can equal the tobyman’s joys,  
9 highwayman
              To blue devils, blue plumbs give the go-by; 
10 bullets
            And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap! 
11 gallows
              Even rack punch has 
some bitter in it,
            For the mare-with-three-legs, boys, I care not a rap, 
12 gallows
              ’Twill be over in less than a minute!
            
                  
Chorus.
            
                Then hip, hurrah!
                Fling care away!
            Hurrah for the game of high-toby!
            
            
            
            
            
            
            
            
            
            
            
               Notes
               See note to “Nix my Doll, Pals, etc.,” ante.
                  
               
               
             
            
            
               		Taken from
               		Musa Pedestris,
               		Three Centuries of Canting Songs and Slang Rhymes
               		[1536―1896], collected and annotated by John S. Farmer.
               	      
            
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