Poem by William Harrison Ainsworth

The Game of High Toby

1.

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?

2.

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?

3.

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, 
  	To blue devils, blue plumbs give the go-by; 
And what if, at length, boys, he come to the crap!
  	Even rack punch has some bitter in it,
For the mare-with-three-legs, boys, I care not a rap, 
  	’Twill be over in less than a minute!

      	Chorus.

    	Then hip, hurrah!
    	Fling care away!
Hurrah for the game of high-toby!

1. One Foot in the Stirrup, or Turpin's First Fling
2. The Modern Greek
3. The Legend of Valdez
4. The Soul-Bell
5. Hymn to Saint Thecla

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