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!