All stood in a circle around a huge fire,
Over which was a vessel of brass—yes, ’twas that metal,
And in heretic lands ’twould be known as a Hat-Kettle:
What are they doing?
Some mischief is brewing!
In the cauldron like that one in Macbeth, is stewing
Something I warrant for somebody’s ruin!
See how the burly monks plunge, each a fist
Into the kettle, from which goes a mist
Creeping and curling like snakes to the ceiling:—