It’ll be in Scotland, maist often, of course, that I’ll come upon something of the sort, but it’s no always there.  I’ve picked up business for my songs everywhere I’ve ever been.  My scrap book is almost full now—­my second one, I mean.  And I suppose that there must be ideas buried in it that are better by far than any I’ve used, for I must confess that I can’t always read the notes I’ve jotted down.  I dash down a line or two, often, and they must seem to me to be important at the time, or I’d no be doing it.  But later, when I’m browsing wi’ the old scrapbook, blessed if I can make head or tail of them!  And when I can’t no one else can; Mrs. Lauder has tried, often enough, and laughed at me for a salt yin while she did it.

But often and often I’ve found a treasure that I’d forgotten a’ aboot in the old book.  I mind once I saw this entry——­

“Think about a song called the ’Last of the Sandies’.”

I had to stop and think a minute, and then I remembered that I’d seen the bill of a play, while I was walking aboot in London, that was called “The Last of the Dandies.”  That suggested the title for a song, and while I sat and remembered I began to think of a few words that would fit the idea.

When I came to put them together to mak’ a song I had the help of my old Glasga friend, Rob Beaton, who’s helped me wi’ several o’ my songs.  I often write a whole song myself; sometimes, though, I can’t seem to mak’ it come richt, and then I’m glad of help frae Beaton or some other clever body like him.  I find I’m an uncertain quantity when it comes to such work; whiles I’ll be able to dash off the verses of a song as fast as I can slip the words doon upon the paper.  Whiles, again, I’ll seem able never to think of a rhyme at a’, and I just have to wait till the muse will visit me again.

There’s no telling how the idea for a song will come.  But I ken fine how a song’s made when once you have the idea!  It’s by hard work, and in no other way.  There’s nae sic a thing as writing a song easily—­not a song folk will like.  Don’t let anyone tell you any different—­or else you may be joining those who are sae sure I’ve refused the best song ever written—­theirs!

The ideas come easily—­aye!  Do you mind a song I used to sing called “I Love a Lassie?” I’m asked ower and again to sing it the noo, so I’m thinking perhaps ye’ll ken the yin I mean.  It’s aye been one of the songs folk in my audiences have liked best.  Weel, ane day I was just leaving a theatre when the man at the stage door handed me a letter—­a letter frae Mrs. Lauder, I’ll be saying.

“A lady’s handwriting, Harry,” he said, jesting.  “I suppose you love the lassies,”

“Oh, aye—­ye micht say so,” I answered.  “At least—­I’m fond o’ all the lassies, but I only love yin.”

And I went off thinking of the bonnie lassie I’d loved sae well sae lang.

“I love ma lassie,” I hummed to myself.  And then I stopped in my tracks.  If anyone was watching me they’d ha’ thought I was daft, no doot!!