“A’ the wey doon the Dumbarton Road the folk were fair hingin’ oot o’ their windows, wavin’ onything at a’ they could get a haud o’, and the Royal carriage was bump-bump-bumpin’ like a’ that ower the granite setts.
“‘Whit’s wrang wi’ the streets o’ Gleska?’ says the King, him bein’ used to wud streets in London, whaur he works.’
“‘It’s granite, if ye please,’ says they.
“‘Oh ay!’ says the King; ‘man, it mak’s a fine noise. Will we soon be there? I’ like this fine, but I wadna like to keep onybody waitin’.’
“At Finnieston the folk cam’ up frae the side streets and fair grat wi’ patriotic fervour. For-bye, a’ the pubs were shut for an’oor or twa.
“‘Whit I want to see’s the poor,’ says the King. ‘I’m tired lookin’ at the folk that’s weel aff; they’re faur ower common.’
“‘Them’s the poor,’ he was tellt; ‘it’s the best we can dae for your Majesty.’
“‘But they’re awfu’ bien-lookin’ and weel put on,’ says he.
“‘Oh ay!’ they tells him, ‘that’s their Sunday claes.’”
“And so the Royal procession passed on its way, the King being supplied wi’ a new hat every, ten minutes, to mak’ up for the yins he spiled liftin’ them to his frantic and patriotic subjects.