In the character of a ruined Farmer—-Song

1
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!

2
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, &c.

3
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, &c.

4
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, &c.

5
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, &c.

6
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, &c.

7
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, &c.