To return to the verses.--The following is a specimen of a totally different cast; and, if less ambitious in its pretensions, it will probably be thought to have more successfully accomplished what it aims at. It is called "An Epistle to Mr. John Medina," a son of Sir John Medina, the celebrated painter, to whom, probably from the habits hinted at in the verses, he was a far inferior artist. He is believed to have been the painter of a large portion of the very numerous extant portraits of Queen Mary. It would be difficult at this day to discover the individual whom he is here called upon to portray, with attributes about as grotesque as those of his inexplicable countryman, Aiken Drum. As several names of persons who were active supporters of the measures of social economy, and the agricultural improvements alluded to in the verses, might be adduced, but no one can be named to whom they appear distinctly and exclusively to apply, it may be less invidious to present them in the form of a purely imaginative picture, than to associate them with any name. AN EPISTLE TO MR. JOHN MEDINA. Now, dear Medina, honest John, Since all your former friends are gone, And even Macgibbon 's turn'd a saint,[234:1] You now perhaps have time to paint. For you, and for your pencil fit, The subject shall be full of wit. Draw me a little lively knight, And place the figure full in sight. With mien erect, and sprightly air, To win the great, and catch the fair. Make him a wreath of turnip tops, With madder interwove, and hops; Lucerne, and St. Foin, here and there, Amid the foliage must appear; Then add potatoes, white and red, A garland for our hero's head. His coat be of election laws, Lined with the patriot's good old cause. His waistcoat of the linen bill, Lapelled with flint and lined with tull. The turnpike act must serve for breeches; With hose of rape tied up with fetches, Furrows, new horse-hoed, hide his shoes, As earnest cross the fields he goes. Draw Pallas offering him a spool, The Lemnian god a miner's tool. Ceres three stalks of blighted corn, Dangling from an inverted horn; And Plutus every scheme inspiring With proffer'd gold, but still retiring: Alike to each important call, Attentive, let him grasp at all. Finish, my friend, this grand design, And immortality be thine. No more obliged, for twenty groats, To draw the Duke, or Queen of Scots, Your name shall rise, prophetic fame says, Above your Mercis[235:1] or your Ramsays. Even I, in literary story, Perhaps shall have my share of glory.