I’m a’ for the plain man.  It’s him I can talk wi’; it’s him I understand, and who understands me.  It’s him I see in the audience, wi’ his wife, and his bairns, maybe.  And it’s him I saw when I was in France—­Briton, Anzac, Frenchman, American, Canadian, South African, Belgian.  Aye, and it was plain men the Hun commanders sent tae dee.  We’ve seen what comes to a land whaur the plain man has nae voice in the affairs o’ the community, and no say as to hoo things shall be done.

In Russia—­though God knows what it’ll be like before ye read what I am writing the noo!—­the plain man has nae mair to say than he had in Germany before the ending o’ the war.  The plain man wants nowt better than tae do his bit o’ work, and earn his wages or his salary plainly —­or, maybe, to follow his profession, and earn his income.  It’s no the money a man has in the bank that tells me whether he’s a plain man or no.  It’s the way he talks and thinks and feels.

I’ve aye felt mysel’ a plain man.  Oh, I’ve made siller—­I’ve done that for years.  But havin’ siller’s no made me less a plain man.  Nor have any honors that ha’ come to me.  They may call me Sir Harry Lauder the noo, but I’m aye Harry to my friends, and sae I’ll be tae the end o’ the chapter.  It wad hurt me sair tae think a bit title wad mak’ a difference to ma friends.

Aye, it was a strange thing in yon days to be knowing that the dreams the wife and I had had for the bairn could be coming true.  It was the first thing we thocht, always, when some new stroke o’ fortune came—­ there’d be that much mair we could do for the bairn.  It surprised me to find hoo much they were offering me tae sing.  And then there was the time when they first talked tae me o’ singin’ for the phonograph!  I laughed fit to kill masel’ that time.  But it’s no a laughin’ matter, as they soon made me see.

It’s no just the siller there’s to be earned frae the wee discs, though there’s a muckle o’ that.  It’s the thocht that folk that never see ye, and never can, can hear your voice.  It’s a rare thing, and an awesome one, tae me, to be thinkin’ that in China and India, and everywhere where men can carry a bit box, my songs may be heard.

I never work harder than when I’m makin’ a record for the phonograph.  It’s a queer feelin’.  I mind weel indeed the first time ever I made a record.  I was no takin’ the gramophone sae seriously as I micht ha’ done, perhaps—­I’d no thocht, as I ha’ since.  Then, d’ye ken, I’d not heard phonographs singin’ in ma ain voice in America, and Australia, and Honolulu, and dear knows where beside.  It was a new idea tae me, and I’d no notion ’twad be a gude thing for both the company and me tae ha’ me makin’ records.  Sae it was wi’ a laugh on ma lips that I went into the recording room o’ one o’ the big companies for the first time.

They had a’ ready for me.  There was a bit orchestra, waitin’, wi’ awfu’ funny looking instruments—­sawed off fiddles, I mind, syne a’ the sound must be concentrated to gae through the horn.  They put me on a stool, syne I’m such a wee body, and that raised my head up high enow sae that ma voice wad carry straight through the horn to the machine that makes the master record’s first impression.