No droplet left in the goblet!
No money left in the purse!
That makes the heart
Of this poor carouser so heavy.
Wandering causes me grief,
I don’t know which way to turn;
I’d like to join a monastery,
There lie the bottles of cool wine.

 ... 

I walk with fleet feet,
But good fortune rides more quickly;
I cannot catch up with it,
It leaves me far behind.
If I arrive anywhere,
Good fortune has only just been there,
Then the wind comes flying along
And immediately whistles derisively at me.

I wish that at this very hour
I were lying by the cask at Heidelberg,
My open mouth at the spigot,
And dreaming of I know not what.
And if a fine maiden wanted
To be a barmaid to me:
I would feel as if roses were floating
Upon the clear wine.

Ah who but knew the way
To that Land of Cockayne!
It seems to me that I must
Find honour and station there.
My courage is so poorly
That I would like to trade it in;
And if it were to rain ducats,
I would be quite content.