Oh, Fortuna

The horn of plenty sounds,
truly we are blessed.

Our fathers raised here,
surely they know best.

We feasted on your virtues,
not a morsel did we save.

We forget, we regret,
thanks that we had gave.

We were young, full of life,
abundant in our years.

You were old, wiser still,
abundant in your tears.

You cried not for yourself,
but wept for us instead.

Oh, Fortuna,
Our prosperity is dead.