song—in the character of a ruined farmer

  tune—“go from my window, love, do.”

  the sun he is sunk in the west,

  all creatures retired to rest,

  while here i sit, all sore beset,

  with sorrow, grief, and woe:

  and its o, fickle fortune, o!

  the prosperous man is asleep,

  nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep;

  but misery and i must watch

  the surly tempest blow:

  and its o, fickle fortune, o!

  there lies thear partner of my breast;

  her cares for a moment at rest:

  must i see thee, my youthful pr,

  thus brought so very low!

  and its o, fickle fortune, o!

  there lie my sweet babies in her arms;

  no anxious fear their little hearts alarms;

  but for their sake my heart does ache,

  with many a bitter throe:

  and its o, fickle fortune, o!

  i once was by fortune carest:

  i once could relieve the distrest:

  now lifes poor support, hardly earnd

  my fate will scarce bestow:

  and its o, fickle fortune, o!

  nofort, nofort i have!

  how wee to me were the grave!

  but then my wife and childrenar—

  o, wither would they go!

  and its o, fickle fortune, o!

  o whither, o whither shall i turn!

  all friendless, forsaken, forlorn!

  for, in this world, rest or peace

  i never more shall know!

  and its o, fickle fortune, o!