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-deni?d wight,
By Fortune quite discarded;
Ye see how I am, day and night,
By lad and lass blackguarded!