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!