Let the wind blow high, let the wind blow low, Through the streets in my kilt I’ll go, And all the lassies shout hello, Donald where’s your troosers… Owersettins: troosers: troos trousers. Let the wind blow … Continue reading Troosers, troos.
Noo loun, fur I see that ye are a loun. Ah’d prefer if ye had troosers on afore ye sit doon. Kin ye just squat like, but no touch, fur the time being so’s ah can … Continue reading Loun.
In the name o the wee man that thing gies me the grue. It’s chowin guid gowf baws ahn crushing yin tae bits in its nieve. Its dreeps o pushion are scowderin the girse, and it’s … Continue reading Grue.