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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!

Poem by Robert Burns
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