When the time for parading nigh hand grows,
A’wash their sel’s clean i’ the sleek trough;
Fling off their black duddies,
Leave hammers and studdies,
And to drill—run the Bonny Geatsiders.
To Newcasel, for three weeks up-stannin,
On Permanent Duty they’re gannin;
And sune i’ th’ papers,
We’s read a’ the capers,
O’ the corpse o’ the Bonny Geatsiders.