Death to The Pope

Her bobist merkt off meyner pawken don
Ir sullet dornoch hie springen schon
Ir dorfet keyns dyspensiren
Der tod wil euch den tancz hofyren

Mr. Pope, notice the tone of my kettledrums;
you shall soon spring after them.
You may not get any dispensation;
Death will strike up the dance for you.

Ich was eyn heiliger bobist genant
Die weyle ich lebete ane forchte bekant
Nw werde ich gefurt frefillich
Czum tode ich were mich oppiglich

I was called a holy pope.
While I lived I didn't know fear.
Now I'm outrageously lead away
to Death. I defend myself vainly.