Читать книгу Poems and Songs of Robert Burns - Robert Burns - Страница 11

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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!