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4. Song—In the Character of a Ruined Farmer

by
 THE SUN he is sunk in the west,
All creatures retir?d 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!

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