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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.