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?