BONNIE, BONNIE, WEE WEE !

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXXIV, Issue 96, 18 December 1912, Page 8

BONNIE, BONNIE, WEE WEE !

HARRY LAUDER GIVES A BED SIDE INTERVIEW.

In pyjamas of pink ami blue, softened down into “art” shades by the laJundry boiler—the merging of the two colours suggesting, with happy appropriateness, the “bonnie heather” —Mr Harry Lauder sat up in bed at a nursing homo in London, and with a broad smile, and in Scotch to match, talked to a Daily Chronicle representative of a new and interesting enterprise. Hut before- he opened his

mouth on the subject of that enterprise ho bogged the writer thoroughly to understand, in spite of what looked like contradictory surroundings, that he was allowed to get up every evening and go out to fulfil his engagement at the Trivoli. “I’ve just got some ulcers inside me here,” he said, spreading his hand over his r’ght-hand waistcoat pocket (only that there was no waistcoat pocket), “and the physicians don’t think

any operation will bo necessary it I lie hero all day under treatment .and come back to bed ns soon as I have finished my ‘turn’ at the Trivoli.” Then bo raised himself on his p 1-

( lows and became a larger path or j heather than ever on the background of white bedding. To Flay Gcorclis Pow. “I was just writing this letter to Graham Moffat when you came in, and it is touching the contents of it that- I want to say a few words to you. it is. getting about, I think, that I am going to play the part of Geordie Pow, the unhappy bridegroom in Mr Moffat’s play at tho Comedy Theatre. Well, that’s the truth as far as it goes, but I am only going to play the part at one special matinee, the proceeds of which are to go to two or three hospitals. Graham Moffat and I have been friends for 20 years; we have performed on the same concert platform often and often in the old days, and I naturally take a great interest in the progress he has made in London, and in the progress that the Scottish drama also has made and is making in a city whose people can have no fujrther use to-day—so at least I venture to think—for Sydney Smith’s statement that it took a hammer to knock the sense of humour into a Scotsman’s, head, A Humorous Entente. “England and Scotland appreciate one another’s humor to-day, and 1 feel that the .reason of t is. that the two peoples are coining more and more in contact with each other in the sphere of stage, art. Understanding a Scotch play is just line making the acquaintance of somebody you have never seen before; and the oftener yon meet one another the stronger becomes your mutual understanding and appreciation. A thorough understanding in this leads to affection, and affection leads to love. I believe that English playgoers do more than appredate and understand A Scrape o’ the Pen.’ T believe they really and truly love it, as they really and truly love ‘Bunty.’ I may and I may not introduce a little singing into the part, but it would not be a sot song. Perhaps 1 might make my entrance singing—for in the first act of the play George Pow is happy. It’s not until he’s married that his troubles begin, and the singing in the early part of the comedy would emphasise his two separate conditions of mind. An Old Scottish Lullaby.

“And talking of singing, I’ve given Miss Jean Alwyn—you’re right, she’s grand!—an old, old Scotch lullaby, which I hope she’ll sing the bairn to sleep with in that pretty scone by the fire. The words are nothing—and they arc everything—for they are just from a mother’s heart, right out to her bairn, and it’s one of tire oldest folklore lullabies of Scotland. I’ll sing it to you now, and you must promise to give the right number of ‘bonnies’ and ‘wees,’ for they make the of the melody.” Then, with h’s exquisitely sympathetic voice and to the most pretty plaintive air, Harry Lauder sat forward from the pillows and sang;— “Your’r© my bonnie, bonnie, wee, wee, wee, wee; You’re my bonnie, bonnie wee; You’re my bonnie, bonnie, wee, wee; You’re my bonnie, bonnie, wee, wee, wee, wee!” Only those who know their Harry Lauder will understand what he made of this simple and seemly (to the uninitiated) senseless lullaby.