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;