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!