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 its 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 its o, fickle fortune, o!
there lies thear partner of my breast;
her cares for a moment at rest:
must i see thee, my youthful pr,
thus brought so very low!
and its o, fickle fortune, o!
there lie my sweet babies in her arms;
no anxious fear their little hearts alarms;