Shall I for fame and freedom stand then;
For Burschen weal the sword lift free?
Quick blinks the steel in my right hand then,
A friend will stand and second me.
To him I say, Mon cher ami,
Before a glass Crambambuli.
It grieves me sore, ye foolish-hearted,
That ye love not, and drink not wine;
To asses are ye now converted,
And might be angels all divine.