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! Tragic Fragment All devil as I am—a damned wretch, A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain, Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; And with sincere but unavailing sighs I view the helpless children of distress: With tears indignant I behold the oppressor Rejoicing in the honest man’s destruction, Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.— Ev’n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you; Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity; Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds, Whom Vice, as usual, has turn’d o’er to ruin. Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven, I had been driven forth like you forlorn, The most detested, worthless wretch among you! O injured God! Thy goodness has endow’d me With talents passing most of my compeers, Which I in just proportion have abused— As far surpassing other common villains As Thou in natural parts has given me more. Tarbolton Lasses, The If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, Ye’ll there see bonie Peggy; She kens her father is a laird, And she forsooth’s a leddy. There Sophy tight, a lassie bright, Besides a handsome fortune: Wha canna win her in a night, Has little art in courtin’. Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale, And tak a look o’ Mysie; She’s dour and din, a deil within, But aiblins she may please ye. If she be shy, her sister try, Ye’ll maybe fancy Jenny; If ye’ll dispense wi’ want o’ sense— She kens hersel she’s bonie.