7. Ah, woe is me, my Mother dear
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H, 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!
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