THE SUN he is sunk in the west,
All creatures retirèd 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!

Added: Jan 3 2004 | Viewed: 692 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Robert Burns
Poem: 4. 4. Song—In the Character of a Ruined Farmer
Volume: Poems and Songs. The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Year: Published/Written in 1779
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