Читать книгу The Collected Novels - William Harrison Ainsworth - Страница 50

Now Oliver78 puts his black nightcap on, And every star its glim79 is hiding, And forth to the heath is the scampsman80 gone, His matchless cherry-black81 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 tol82 by his side, and his pops83 in his pocket.