For the ointment of hell was too well rubbed in.

FIRST YAGER.
What wonders so strange can you all see there?
An elk-skin jacket he happens to wear,
And through it the bullets can make no way.

SERGEANT.
'Tis an ointment of witches' herbs, I say,
Kneaded and cooked by unholy spell.

TRUMPETER.
No doubt 'tis the work of the powers of hell.

SERGEANT.
That he reads in the stars we also hear,
Where the future he sees--distant or near--
But I know better the truth of the case
A little gray man, at the dead of night,
Through bolted doors to him will pace--
The sentinels oft have hailed the sight,
And something great was sure to be nigh,
When this little gray-coat had glided by.

FIRST YAGER.
Ay, ay, he's sold himself to the devil,
Wherefore, my lads, let's feast and revel.