When S-ND-CH hangs in fatire's chains,
And S-CK-LLE's ghoft haunts || Minden plains,
When history has damn'd 'em :

The muse shall confecrate thy name,

And give LEE to immortal fame,

With WASHINGTON and HAMPDEN.

TO THE

EDITOR,

BY THE SAME.

THOUGH my friend General Burgoyne and

his army have laid down their arms, yet they were invincible whilst they held them in their hands- This is my confolation-the campaign has not answered our expectations. Ego & Rex meus are disappointed-One army being prifoners at Bofton, and another army, fhut up, in Philadelphia, are (it must be owned)

rather unlucky accidents-But let it be confidered that we have only fixty thousand men in America, (Gen. Burgoyne and his army included.) Thirty or forty thousand more may do great things, and perhaps reduce the rebels to unconditional fubmiffion in five or fix campaigns. I took up the pen from a generous motive; to celebrate our fuppofed victories, to difplay the glory of Old England, the extenfion of our commerce, the wisdom of our ministers, the magnanimity of our monarch, and the happinefs of the people-As it is my ardent wifh to raise the spirits of my defponding countrymen, I ftill think the publication of the following chearful Ode (though a little mal-a-propos at prefent as to facts) may prove a national benefit.

ODE,

SING Io Peans, through the land,
No more the yankey cowards ftand
Who bafely meant t' enflave us:
We've flay'd their virgins-babes and wives,
With tomahawks and fcalping knives,
*Which GoD and NATURE gave us.

Our bayonets have op'd their veins,
The congrefs quaking in our chains
Are" deftin'd to the cord ;"

-Yet ftill they talk of rights and laws,
And fay they fell in freedom's cause
Beneath a tyrant's fword!

Traitors ring from every tongue,

The king-the king-can do no wrong!

Lord Suffolk's speech.

Thefe

TO LEE I tune the heart-felt lays,
The fouthern beauties fing his praise,
Joy flushes
every charm:

-No more the throbbing matron fears,
No more the foft-ey'd virgin's tears,
Flow at each dire alarm.

Midft chiefs and fages nobly plac'd,
By Freedom's hand with laurels grac❜d,
* TIMOLEON-like aspire;

Thy genius may their councils ftamp
The dulleft peafant in the camp,

Thy fpirit lend a fire!

Yankies (tho' cowards) ply their guns,
And not a man the combat fhuns

For

For PARKER's smoke and racket; At length the bold Sir PETER droops, Since vain his wish to float the troops With bladders, and cork-jacket.

'Tis LEE who points the vengeful fire,
Britannia's fhatter'd fhips retire,
Yon boafting hero flinches;

See in despair he drops his fword;
-For who could pass th' infidious ford
Which fwell'd to feet-from inches *

Negroes fhall weep-(our good allies)
And with their DUNMORE fympathife
For all these fad difafters :

-They hop'd to dance round Charles-town flame,
And purchase liberty with fame,

By murdering of their mafters.

Your + British knives ye Indians ftain,
Stab pregnant wives (to please G-R-E)

And