The Song Op the Spendthrift

To seven kopek the heir, Nor house nor land have I— Live I—hey! I live then! Die I—hey! I die!

In many realms the Fool Can sleep no wink for care, While yet the spendthrift snores When dawns the morning fair.

Free as the wind he blows, Door nor gate to balk him, Riches, hey! Now give place! Poverty goes walking!

Before me bends the rye When through the fields I stray And glad the forest hears My pipe and song alway.

If one must bitter weep— No man will see his tears, If sadly bowed his head— None save the partridge jeers.

If weary one, or not, What matters anything? Let him toss back his locks And playful laugh and sing!

And if one die,—the grave Will warm his hands and feet! Dost to my song respond? Nay? Then it is complete.