7. Ah, woe is me, my Mother dear

AH, woe is me, my mother dear!

A man of strife ye’ve born me:

For sair contention I maun bear;

They hate, revile, and scorn me.

I ne’er could lend on bill or band,

That five per cent. might blest me;

And borrowing, on the tither hand,

The deil a ane wad trust me.

Yet I, a coin-deniиd wight,

By Fortune quite discarded;

Ye see how I am, day and night,

By lad and lass blackguarded!