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　　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! Poems and Songs of Robert Burns