Lyrics
Trews made of tartan tight to the skin
With feather of eagle my bonnet was trimmed
And my hair tied with ribbon, powdered and pinned
When I was mincing with cheerly
Shiny our silver and sweeping our blades
Silken our hose bound with green and with yellow
That bled with the red on the ill-chosen ground
When I was mincing with cheerly
Shiny our brooches but cloudy our brains
Golden our stories through drink-sodden haze
Where our fellowman died we strode with pride
When I was mincing with cheerly
Lord, what am I that I should be spared?
Till all the drink drunk dry