Davie Robertson..... one of Scotland's finest songwriters.

Kilts.
The modern confection of kilt, Prince Charlie jacket, and big white socks bears
about as much resemblance to authentic traditional Highland dress as the
Papuan penis-sheath. Quite apart from that, it seems to me that wafting the
tartan around is a poor substitute for working at a real culture.


Although ma country I revere,
Juist let me make yin thing quite clear:
I'll say withoot a trace o guilt,
Ye'll never catch me in a kilt!
Away amang the Hielan peaks,
When Hielan laddies wore nae breeks,
Insteid a substitute they made –
A garment ca'ed the belted plaid.
An this affair, when richtly duin,
Claithed erse an shooders aw in yin.
It let ye climb hills at the gallop,
An when in need required nae ballop.
But then some joker, for a laugh,
Cut the hail shootin-match in half,
Then tucked it roond his nice white shirt,
An made his-sel a kin o skirt.
The Hielanders then didnae care
Tae wear the damn thing ony mair,
An donning overalls on their crofts,
Left kilts tae Yanks, pipe bands, an toffs.
Yet here in this degenerate age,
Noo wearin kilts is aw the rage,
An lads wi legs like pluckit chookies
Are wrappin kilts roond their bahookies.
Tae weddins they resort in flocks
Wi cute wee daggers doon their socks;
An no, yer auld een dinae fail ye –
Deid badgers ower their genitalia!
As Heilan chief ye'll shairly make it,
Togged oot in a Prince Chairlie jaiket;
And awbody kens that real hard cases
Wear dancing pumps wi criss-cross laces.
They think that warriors they resemble –
The very sicht wuid make ye tremble;
But no wi fear! For nae sicht dafter,
E'er made man pish his-sel wi laughter.
These buggers must be oot the box,
Paradin roond in big white socks!
God help sic puir bare-leggit losers:
I'll rest content wi wearin troosers!