The silver ring out o' the popinjay's beak—
A good shot he, you see, who would succeed.
The Devil guards his secrets close as God.
For who can say what elementaries,
Demonic, lurk in desolate dells and hills
And shadowy woods? malignant forces who,
Malicious vassals of satanic power,
Are agents to that Evil none may name,
Who signs himself, through these, a slave to those,
Those mortals who call in the aid of Hell,