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!