I love my native land.

I love Scots talk, Scots food, Scots--aweel, I was aboot to say something that would only sadden many of my friends in America.

Hoots, though mebbe they'll no put me in jail if I say I liked a wee drappie o' Scottish liquor noo and again! But it was no a hard thing for me not to use my Scottish tongue when I was singing there in Birkenhead, though it went sair against ma judgment.

And one nicht, at the start of ma engagement, they were clamorous as I'd ne'er seen them sae far south.
"Gi'es more, Harry," I heard a Scottish voice roar.

I'd sung my three songs; I'd given encores; I was bowing acknowledgment of the continuing applause.