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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 de'il a ane wad trust me.

Yet I, a coin-denied wight,
By Fortune quite discarded,
Ye see how I am, day and night,
By lad and lass blackguarded.