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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!