Wine, No. 3

I, a wandering scholar lad, Born for toil and sadness, Oftentimes am driven by Poverty to madness.

Literature and knowledge I Fain would still be earning, Were it not that want of pelf Makes me cease from learning.

These torn clothes that cover me Are too thin and rotten; Oft I have to suffer cold, By the warmth forgotten.

Scarce I can attend at church, Sing God's praises duly; Mass and vespers both I miss, Though I love them truly.

Oh, thou pride of N——, By thy worth I pray thee Give the suppliant help in need, Heaven will sure repay thee.

Take a mind unto thee now Like unto St. Martin; Clothe the pilgrim's nakedness, Wish him well at parting.

So may God translate your soul Into peace eternal, And the bliss of saints be yours In His realm supernal.