A Drinking Song, Translated from the German

Let Euler go measure the sun, His knowledge must truckle to mine, I measure the size of my tun, And know it in bottles of wine.

Let Meyer chop logic for nought, A syllogist is but an ass; While I, without wasting a thought, Infer from the bottle the lass.

Let Haller mispend half his time, O'er moss, weeds, and rubbish to pore; I only seek out for a rhime, As he, wiser once, did before.

Let Bodmer his inference draw, And stoutly with casuists fight; He might as well balance a straw, He'll never put folly to flight.

And in ages to come, tho they cry, "Such men when again shall we see!" While I am forgot—What care I— What are ages to come, pray, to me?