It was a generous offer, surely, but I did not see my way clear to accept it, and the song went back immediately. A little later I got another. He wrote a very dignified letter this time; he'd evidently made up his mind to forgie me for the way I'd insulted him and his song before, but he wanted me to understand he'd have nae nonsense frae me. But this time he wanted only fifteen shilling a performance.

Weel, he kept on sending me songs, and each one was worse than the one before, though you'd never have thought it possible for anything to be worse than any one of them if you'd seen them! And each time his price went doon! The last one was what he called a "grand new song."

"I'm hard up just now, Harry," he said, "and you know how fond I've always been of you. So you can have this one outright for five shillings, _cash down_."

D'ye ken, I thought his persistence deserved a reward of some sort, sae I sent him the five shillings, and put his song in the fire. I rather thought I was a fool tae do sae, because I expected he'd be bombarding me wi' songs after that bit of encouragement. But it was not so; I'm thankfu' to say I've never heard of him or his songs frae that day tae this.

I've had many a kind word said tae me aboot my songs and the way I sing them. But the kindest words have aye been for the music. And it's true that it's the lilt of a melody that makes folk remember a song.

That's what catches the ear and stays wi' those who have heard a song sung.

It would be wrong for me to say I'm no proud of the melodies that I have introduced with the songs I've sung. I have never had a music lesson in my life. I can sit doon, the noo, at a piano, and pick out a harmony, but that's the very limit of my powers wi' any instrument.

But ever since I can remember anything I have aye been humming at some lilt or another, and it's been, for the maist part, airs o' my ain that I've hummed. So I think I've a richt to be proud of having invented melodies that have been sung all over the world, considering how I had no musical education at a'.

Certainly it's the melody that has muckle tae do wi' the success of any song. Words that just aren't quite richt will be soon overlooked if the melody is one o' the sort the boys in the gallery pick up and whustle as they gae oot.

I'm never happy, when a gude verse comes tae me, till I've wedded a melody tae the words. When the idea's come tae me I'll sit doon at the piano and strum it ower and ower again, till I maun mak' everyone else i' the hoose tired. 'Deed, and I've been asked, mair than once, tae gie the hoose a little peace.

I dinna arrange my songs, I needn't say, having no knowledge of the principles. But always, after a song's accompaniment has been arranged for the orchestra, I'll listen carefully at a rehearsal, and often I can pick out weak spots and mak' suggestions that seem to work an improvement. I've a lot of trouble, sometimes, wi' the players, till they get sae that they ken the way I like my accompaniment tae be. But after that we aye get alang fine together, the orchestra and me.

CHAPTER XXII

I've talked a muckle i' this book aboot what I think. Do you know why?

It's because I'm a plain man, and I think the way plain men think all ower this world. It was the war taught me that I could talk to folk as well as sing tae them. If I've talked tae much in this book you maun forgie me--and you maun think that it's e'en yor ain fault, in a way.

During the war, whiles I'd speak aboot this or that after my show, people paid an attention tae me that wad have been flattering if I hadn't known sae well that it was no to me they were listening. It wasna old Harry Lauder who interested them--it was what he had to tell them. It was a great thing to think that folk would tak' me seriously.

I've been amusing people for these many years. It seemed presumptuous, at first, when I set out to talk to them of other and more serious things.

"Hoots!" I said, at first, when they wanted me tae speak for the war and the recruiting or a loan. "They'll no be wanting to listen tae me.

I'm just a comedian."

"You'll be a relief to them, Harry," I was told. "There's been too much serious speaking already."

Weel, I ken what they meant. It's serious speaking I've done, and serious thinking. But there's nae harm if I crack a bit joke noo and again; it makes the medicine gae doon the easier. And noo the medicine's swallowed. There's nae mair fichting tae be done, thank G.o.d! We've saved the hoose our ancestors built.

But its walls are crackit here and there. The roof's leaking. There's paint needed on all sides. There's muckle for us tae do before the'

hoose we've saved is set in order. It's like a hoose that's been afire. The firemen come and play their hose upon it. They'll put oot the fire, a' richt. But is it no a sair sicht, the hoose they leave behind them when they gae awa'?

Ye'll see a wee bit o' smoke, an hour later, maybe, coming frae some place where they thocht it was a' oot. And ye'll have tae be taking a bucket of water and putting oot the bit o' fire that they left smouldering there, lest the whole thing break oot again. And here and there the water will ha' done a deal of damage. Things are better than if the fire had just burnt itself oot, but you've no got the hoose you had before the fire! 'Deed, and ye have not!

Nor have we. We had our fire--the fire the Kaiser lighted. It was arson caused our fire--it was a firebug started it, no spontaneous combustion, as some wad ha' us think. And we called the firemen--the braw laddies frae all the world, who set to work and never stopped till the fire was oot. Noo they've gaed hame aboot their other business. We'll no be wanting to call them oot again. It was a cruel, hard task they had; it was a terrible ficht they had tae make.

It's sma' wonder, after such a conflagration, that there's spots i'

the world where there's a bit of flame still smouldering. It's for us tae see that they're a' stamped oot, those bits of fire that are still burning. We can do that ourselves--no need to ca' the tired firemen oot again. And then there's the hoose itself!

Puir hoose! But how should it have remained the same? Man, you'd no expect to sleep in your ain hoose the same nicht there'd been a fire to put out? You'd be waiting for the insurance folks. And you'd know that the furniture was a' spoiled wi' water, and smoke. And there'll be places where the firemen had to chop wi' their axes. They couldna be carfu' wi' what was i' the hoose--had they been sae there'd be no a hoose left at a' the noo.

Sae are they no foolish folk that were thinking that sae soon as peace came a' would be as it was before yon days in August, 1914? Is it but five years agane? It is--but it'll tak' us a lang time tae bring the world back to where it was then. And it can't be the same again. It can't. Things change.

Here's what there is for us tae do. It's tae see that the change is in the richt direction. We canna stand still the noo. We'll move. We'll move one way or the other--forward or back.

And I say we dare not move back. We dare not, because of the graves that have been filled in France and Gallipoli and dear knows where beside in these last five years. We maun move forward. They've left sons behind them, many of the laddies that died to save us. Aye, there's weans in Britain and America, and in many another land, that will ne'er know a faither.

We owe something to those weans whose faithers deed for this world's salvation. We owe it to them and to their faithers tae see that they have a better world to grow up in than we and their faithers knew. It can be a better world. It can be a bonnier world than any of us have ever dreamed of. Dare I say that, ye'll be asking me, wi' the tears of the widow and the orphan still flowing fresh, wi' the groans of those that ha' suffered still i' our ears?

Aye, I dare say it. And I'll be proving it, tae, if ye'll ha' patience wi' me. For it's in your heart and mine that we'll find the makings of the bonnier world I can see, for a' the pain.

Let's stop together and think a bit. We were happy, many of us, in yon days before the war. Our loved yins were wi' us. There was peace i' a'

the world. We had no thought that any wind could come blowing frae ootside ourselves that would cast down the hoose of our happiness.

Wasna that sae? Weel, what was the result?

I think we were selfish folk, many, too many, of us. We had no thought, or too little, for others. We were so used to a' we had and were in the habit of enjoying that we forgot that we owed much of what we had to others. We were becoming a very fierce sort of individualists. Our life was to ourselves. We were self-sufficient.

One of the prime articles of our creed was Cain's auld question:

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

We answered that question wi' a ringing "No!" The day was enow for the day. We'd but to gae aboot our business, and eat and drink, and maybe be merry. Oh, aye--I ken fine it was sae wi' me. Did I have charity, Weel, it may be that the wife and I did our wee bit tae be helping some that was less fortunate than ourselves. But here I'll be admitting why I did that. It was for my ain selfish satisfaction and pleasure. It was for the sake of the glow of gude feeling, the warmth o' heart, that came wi' the deed.

And in a' the affairs of life, it seems to me, we human folk were the same. We took too little thought of G.o.d. Religion was a failing force in the world. Hame ties were loosening; we'd no the appreciation of what hame meant that our faithers had had. Not all of us, maybe, but too many. And a' the time, G.o.d help us, we were like those folk that dwell in their wee hooses on the slopes of Vesuvius--puir folk and wee hooses that may be swept awa' any day by an eruption of the volcano.

All wasna sae richt and weel wi' the world as we thought it in you days. We'd closed our een to much of bitterness and hatred and malice that was loose and seeking victims in the hearts of men. Aye, it was the Hun loosed the war upon us. It was he who was responsible for the calamity that overtook the world--and that will mak' him suffer maist of all in the end, as is but just and richt. But we'd ha' had trouble, e'en gi'en there'd been no war.

It wouldna ha' been sae great, perhaps. There'd not be sae much grief and sae much unhappiness i' the world today, save for him. But there was something wrang wi' the world, and there had tae be a visitation of some sort before the world could be made better.

There's few things that come to a man or a nation in the way of grief and sorrow and trouble that are no punishments for some wickedness and sin o' his ain. We dinna always ken what it is we ha' done. And whiles the innocent maun suffer wi' the guilty--aye, that's a part of the punishment of the guilty, when they come to realize hoo it is they've carried others, maybe others they love, doon wi' them into the valley of despair.

I love Britain. I think you'll all be knowing that I love my native land better than anything i' the world. I'd ha' deed for her gladly-- aye, gladly. It was a sair grief tae me that they wadna tak' me. I tried, ye ken? I tried even before the Huns killed my boy, John. And I tried again after he'd been ta'en. Sae I had tae live for my country, and tae do what I could to help her.

But that doesna mean that I think my country's always richt. Far frae it. I ken only tae well that she's done wrang things. I'm minded of one of them the noo.

I've talked before of history. There was 1870, when Prussia crushed France. We micht ha' seen the Hun then, rearing himself up in Europe, showing what was in his heart. But we raised no hand. We let France fall and suffer. We saw her humbled. We saw her cast down. We'd fought against France--aye. But we'd fought a nation that was generous and fair; a nation that made an honorable foe, and that played its part honorably and well afterward when we sent our soldiers to fight beside hers in the Crimea.

France had clear een even then. She saw, when the Hun was in Paris, wi' his hand at her throat and his heel pressed doon upon her, that he meant to dominate all Europe, and, if he could, all the world. She begged for help--not for her sake alone, but for humanity. Humanity refused. And humanity paid for its refusal.

And there were other things that were wrang wi' Britain. Our cause was holy, once we began to ficht. Oh, aye--never did a nation take up the sword wi' a holier reason. We fought for humanity, for democracy, for the triumph of the plain man, frae the first. There are those will tell ye that Britain made war for selfish reasons. But it's no worth my while tae answer them. The facts speak for themselves.

But here's what I'm meaning. We saw Belgium attacked. We saw France threatened wi' a new disaster that would finish the murder her ain courage and splendor had foiled in 1871. We sprang to the rescue this time--oh, aye! The nation's leaders knew the path of honor--knew, too, that it was Britain's only path of safety, as it chanced. They declared war sae soon as it was plain how Germany meant to treat the world.

Sae Britain was at war, and she called oot her young men. Auld Britain--wi' sons and daughters roond a' the Seven Seas. I saw them answering the call, mind you. I saw them in Australia and New Zealand.

I kissed my ain laddie gude bye doon there in Australia when he went back--to dee.

Never was there a grander outpouring of heroic youth. We'd no conscription in those first days. That didna come until much later.

Sae, at the very start, a' our best went forth to ficht and dee.

Thousands--hundreds of thousands--millions of them. And sae I come to those wha were left.

It's sair I am to say it. But it was in the hearts of sae many of those who stayed behind that we began tae be able tae see what had been wrang wi' Britain--and what was, and remains, wrang wi' a' the world to-day.