We present this work in honor of the poet’s 215th birthday.

The Pope he leads a happy life,
He fears not married care nor strife.
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine,
I would the Pope’s gay lot were mine.

But yet all happy’s not his life,
He has no maid, nor blooming wife;
No child has he to raise his hope,
I would not wish to be the Pope.

The Sultan better pleases me,
His is a life of jollity;
He’s wives as many as he will,
I would the Sultan’s throne then fill.

But even he’s a wretched man,
He must obey the Alcoran;
He dare not drink one drop of wine
I would not change his lot for mine.

So here I’ll take my lowly stand,
I’ll drink my own, my native land;
I’ll kiss my maiden fair and fine,
And drink the best of Rhenish wine.

And when my maiden kisses me
I’ll think that I the Sultan be;
And when my cheery glass I tope,
I’ll fancy then I am the Pope.