Then, changing his voice to Italian, he continued, "After all, silly fool, you play not ill, and sing capitally, I warrant me." "Si signore, Capitano--I can sing." "Ha! what are you doing to my Italian, making him cry? Use not the poor child so harshly." "I'm blessed if I made his tears flow--it is his own silly thoughts; the lad can sing--at least he says so--let him sing us a song ere we go. Sing a song in praise of wine, boy!" "And take some too," said the Earl, as old Andrew brought a silver goblet full of red wine, and cakes. "Bring some more, Andrew, and tell the ladies the Italian boy is going to give us a parting song." "Ay, my Lord, I'll tell them." Summoned by the old man, the whole of the guests soon gathered round the stone, on which the disguised Juana sat; he--for we must still call her so--had again resumed his instrument, and prepared to gratify the desire of his listeners. Old Andrew meanwhile, proffered the goblet--the boy lifted it to his lips, and then, untasted, dashed it on the ground--to Andrew's great wrath, who cried, "Gude save us! sic a waste o' wine--he treats the vera best wine an' it were no better than water frae the burn! gude lack, to see a bletherin' Frenchman wi' never a bawbee, dae what the Earl wadna' wi' his thousands o' gowd an' siller." Whilst Andrew thus vented his wrath on the Frenchman--as he called all foreigners without distinction--the Italian had played a wild prelude to the air he now sang with a magnificent voice. SONG. Take hence the costly bowl! The red wine, brightly sparkling, Can fire no more the soul In midnight sorrow darkling, Without one lonely ray. The friends who pledged me once are gone, And she whose eyes so softly shone-- Ah! faithless maid--has left me lone. Hence, take yon bowl away! Take hence the ruby wine! Its juice not cheers, but maddens; And when I think what fate is mine, Lost bliss, remembered, saddens, And but distracts my brain. In wine I pledged my lady fair, In wine I drowned my boyish care, Now hope has languished to despair, I'll never drink again! Take hence the flowing bowl! It was not meant for sorrow. The careless mind, the sunny soul From it new beams may borrow; To me it lends no ray. In it, as in a glass, I see My parted joys, and that false she Who promised endless truth to me! Hence, take yon bowl away! "In troth will I," said old Andrew, still burning with ire, "and ye'll nae get it full agen, that's all, you malapert!" The poor boy, however, received better praise than Andrew was willing to give, and the Earl advancing to where he sat offered a green silk, netted purse, through which glimpses of the ruddy gold made Andrew's eyes sparkle. To the old man's surprise this was also refused.