CANT SONGS
The Scampsman’s Night
Mists on the marsh are gathering thick,
The shuddering woods are dim,
My barker’s muzzle looks grim,
Of boozing and delling and such I’m sick.
Saddle my mare—my Marjorie—
For Oliver’s glim is bright,
And this is a snaffling night—
Ho, my girl, for the nuttiest spree!
We’ll make his Lordship tip us the bit,
We’ll knuckle his mort’s fawnie,
And a kiss, for we’re gay dogs, we,
And love to fool with a comely chit.
At morning’s dawn we will ride to our ken,
And tipple, and count our swag,
And of our flash spices brag,
And rest the bodies of mares and men.