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Poem	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!
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