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 it's 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 it's o, fickle fortune, o!

　　there lies the dear partner of my breast;

　　her cares for a moment at rest:

　　must i see thee, my youthful pride,

　　thus brought so very low!

　　and it's 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 it's o, fickle fortune, o!

　　i once was by fortune carest:

　　i once could relieve the distrest:

　　now life's poor support, hardly earn'd

　　my fate will scarce bestow:

　　and it's o, fickle fortune, o!

　　no comfort, no comfort i have!

　　how welcome to me were the grave!

　　but then my wife and children dear—

　　o, wither would they go!

　　and it's 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 it's o, fickle fortune, o!