They know weel what they like, and why they like it, and they let you ken hoo they feel.

They are an artistic race; more so than most others, I think.

They've had sair misfortunes to bear, and they've borne them weel.
One nicht I was at Shoreditch, playing in the old London Music Hall.
The East Enders had gi'en me a fairly terrific reception that evening, and when it was time for me to be off to the Pavilion for my next turn they were so crowded round the stage door that I had to ficht ma way to ma brougham.

It was a close call for me, onyway, that nicht, and I was far frae pleased when a young man clutched me by the hand.
"Let me get off, my lad!" I cried, sharply.

"I'm late for the 'Pav.' the noo! Wait till anither nicht----" "All right, 'Arry," he said, not a bit abashed.