Donald where’s yer troosers


I’ve just come down from the Isle of Skye,
I’m no very big an’ I’m awfy shy,
And the lassies shout when I go by
“Hey Donald, whaur’s yer troosers?”

Let the winds blow high, let the winds blow low
Through the streets in ma kilt I go.
All the lassies shout “Hello,
Hey Donald, whaur’s yer troosers?”

Tae wear the kilt is my delight,
And it’s not wrong, I know it’s right.
How the folks back home would get a fright
If they saw me wearin’ troosers
A lassie took me tae a ball
And it was slippery in the hall
And I was feared that I would fall
For I hadnae on ma troosers.

I once went down tae London town
And I had some fun on the Underground
The ladies turned their heads around
Saying “Donald, where are your trousers?”

The lassies want me, everyone
Well let them catch me if they can
Ye cannae take the breeks off a Hieland man,
And I don’t wear ma troosers.

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