Just look into this cot awhile,
In Whalsay's or in Skerry's Isle,
There, on a Sabbath evening, rests
The Fisher, from the storms he breasts;
No Pastor has been there that day,
No boat has crossed the stormy way;
And many a Sabbath-day has fled,
Since last to Worship they were led.

"I say," quo Eric to his Wife,
"I wish in a' the ills o' life,
We had a Minister to cheer us,
Ane wha kens the airt to steer us;
Tell us how to mak' for Heaven,
How our sins may be forgiven."

"It's truth ye say," was answer spoken,
"But sure, my man, ye hae forgotten,
That 'tween the Main, this Isle, and Skerry,
There lies that wae and awsome ferry,
How could the Minister come owre,
When no a boat could live an hour?"

Ay, but my man, that wad be fine,
I wish I saw the siller shine

That wad this blessin' to us bring,
Gar mony a heart wi' gladness ring.
There's our wee Sandy rinnin' there;
And Norna too, sae blythe and fair,
That ne'er in Baptism hae been given,
In covenant to the Lord o' Heaven;
And there's the Lord's command He gave
The nicht afore He died to save.
Wae's me! I canna bear to think,
How lang it is sin' I did drink
In memory o' that wondrous love,
That cam' to save us frae above!"

Micht gie a "weigh" o' fish each man,
And sae wad lend a helpin' han'."

Say, shall we leave them thus to pine
For ministry of love Divine ?

Shall we not join with heart and hand,
And send what help we can command?

THOMAS COWAN,

A

prose

and

GENIAL and clever writer, both in verse, was born at Danskine, near the foot of the Lammermoor Hills, in the parish of Garvald, East Lothian, in the year 1834. For the long period of forty years, his father was the village blacksmith," and although not destined to convert his "honest sweat" into a fortune-being too heavily weighted with a large family, of which the subject of our sketch was the tenth of twelve-both parents were held in high estimation among their neighbours. The nearest school being over three miles distant, seven years of age was the appointed time for the members of the family entering on school life. Accordingly, at that age, Thomas was sent to a worthy dame's school at the village of Gifford. A year afterwards he was transferred to the Parish School, and, when he was eleven years old, the family, on account of the failing health of the father, removed to Haddington. After attending school for two years, he commenced his apprenticeship in a Haddington printing office. His education having been confined to the three "R's," he now felt an ambition to acquire Latin and French, and accordingly gave his spare time to master the rudiments of these languages.

After completing his apprenticeship, Mr Cowan worked at his trade for some time in Edinburgh, but

the business of a bookseller and stationer being advertised for sale in Haddington, he accepted it as a good chance for a rise in life, and acquired the same -adding shortly after a printing plant. Mr Cowan has had a busy life; the complex nature of his business-for he is a glass and china merchant, as well as a news agent and dealer in periodicals—requiring close and strict attention. He says "Leisure has been a thing utterly unknown to me for the last twenty years. Many a day I have not been able to open a newspaper as they passed through my hands. I am thus a good example of the proverb which says— Immediately under the lamp there is darkness.' It is not without considerable disquietude that I have yielded to your request. Hitherto, I have been content, and rather pleased, that I have been able to sing out of the darkness, and feel that I am as much afraid of the light as any cockroach. Like a certain feathered songster, my habit is to sing concealed, and dragging me out of my ambush may have the effect of striking me dumb; but while trembling for the future of my harp, I embrace with thankfulness what may be my one sole chance of entering the ranks of the immortals. I can well remember my first glimpse into the world of song. When about nine years of age, a schoolmate and I were wading through a burn, when he dropped out of his pocket a small edition of Burns' Poems, which on lifting out of the water he threw away. I picked it up, soaked like a sponge, and mutilated, tattered, and torn. After getting it dried, by mere chance I opened it at "Tam o' Shanter," which held me spellbound till I had devoured it all." "Although conscious," he continues, "that my besetting sin is an ungovernable tendency to enjoy or depict the ludicrous, yet serious and thoughtful poetry has a great charm for me. I can scarcely recall my first effort at lyrical composition, yet I am conscious that

Cupid had his hand in the pie. I feel now just the faintest pang of regret that I have not taken a greater paternal care of some of these little vagabond chips, as they might possibly have been of service as links in a chain, however worthless. My workshop is in the great field of Nature-happiest when hid in the woodlands, or sauntering along secluded grassy lanes, or the banks of the singing burn."

In no case has Mr Cowan as yet attached his name, or even initials to any prose sketch or poem to the local papers. It was only after he commenced to contribute to the Edinburgh newspapers that he appended his initials, "judging," as he says, "that in a wider and more distant field I should be more effectually hid.”

From the specimens we give, our readers will agree with us in saying that Mr Cowan should not be allowed to "muffle up his throat," and keep his notes for some imaginary and far-off spring. He has not the excuse of the mavis, and should give us more of his "clear luting." While he hits off with much vigour, wit, and humour anything requiring a touch of sarcasm, he finds in his walks full exercise for that fine sense of the beauty and wondrousness of all visible things-" the earth, and every common sight," the expression of which he has so worthily embodied in his poems.

LITTLE MABEL.
"Little Mabel Gray,

Ken ye whaur ye're sittin'?
Mind ye're in the kirk,

An' playin' like a kitten."
Sae happy, too, she looks,
"Twere cruel to restrict her;
If she'd rest a blink,

I wad draw her picter.

Rest! She has o' rest
No the faintest notion:
The problem she has solved
O'" everlasting motion."

I doot thae Gospel truths
Are each to her a fable;
She's crunchin' at a bake:
That's a truth for Mabel.

There she wipes the crumbs
Aff her spleet new frocket;
Hoots! the wee bit troot
Canna fin' her pocket.
Noo she spells the books
Lyin' on the table-
Reads them upside down;
What's the odds to Mabel?

Pookin' Katie's sleeve,

Coaxin' her for sweeties;
If she no gets nane,

Bick'rin wi' her feeties.
What's she after next?

There, off goes her mitten!
Turnin't ootside in,

The thoom awa she's bitten.

There she birls her muff,
Spoilin' a' the sable;
Daddie's lookin' gruff

At his little Mabel.
What was that a yawn?
Weary o' the sermon ?
A sigh! poor little maid!
What's wrong I can't determine.

Troops o' infant thochts

Scamper through her noddle ;
Hoo the sermon's gaun

Caresna she a bodle.

Glad she hears "Amen,"

Then, as fast's she's able,

Toddles awa' hame

Ta-ta, bonnie Mabel!

THE FIRST SPRIG OF FURZE BLOSSOM.

This blooming gem from its parent stem
I cull'd, sweet maid, for thee;

Now listen, dear, while I let you hear

The song it sang to me.

As I chanced to roam by its distant home

On the moorland, bleak and wild,

I listen'd fain to the gladsome strain
Of this hardy mountain-child.