Poor devil that I am, my Baron

Poor devil that I am, my Baron,

I envy you your rank,

Your place so close to the throne

And your several good fields,

Your father's strong castle,

His hunting grounds and rifle.

Of me, poor devil, so it seems,

My Baron you are envious,

Because nature has blessed me like a mother

Since I was a lad.

With my heart and head unburdened

I became poor, but not a case of pity.

Methinks, dear Baron, Sir,

We should leave us as we are:

You would remain your father's son,

And I my mother's child.

We live without envy and hate,

And do not covet the other's station,

You'll forgo a place on Mount Parnassus,

And I won't ask for a place on your council.