Lewis, the winter harsh, and climate rough, To each of his nice captains, sends a muff, Knowing his troops too tender to resist The foe, without a furr to guard his wrist; For who could prime his gun, or pistol hold, Whose aching fingers were benumbed with cold. _Prussia_, a different scheme in war approves; Whose hardy veterans charge without their gloves. Defy the rigour of the chilling air, And fight, and conquer with their knuckles bare. _Bourbon!_ if wreathes and triumphs are thy aim, Think of some wiser way to purchase fame: Some other arts thy rival to subdue, Soft muffs, without keen swords, will never do; Thy shivering troops would act a better part, Would'st thou send something that could warm their heart; Less for their valour than their heels admir'd With fighting oft' ... with flying seldom tir'd, Success thy arms would never fail to meet, Were battles to be won by nimble feet. _New Amer. Mag._, No. IV-80, Apr. 1758, Woodbridge in N. J. THE KING OF PRUSSIA'S ODE IMITATED IN RHIME. 1. Father of all! all pow'rful Lord! Infinitely unknown! By heathen, and by saint ador'd, Tho' differently, yet one; By what great name shall I address Thee everlasting king? Oh! how my gratitude express? Oh! how thy praises sing? But, O great God! omniscient ever just, Permit towards thy throne to bow, a particle of dust. 2. By friends forsaken ev'ry where, Alone, the brunt to stand, Winter's inclement cold to bear, And in a foreign Land; The foe, enrag'd on ev'ry side, Dire implements of war In various shapes and forms provide, And doom them for our share. Heav'ns! with what fury to the charge they fly; Forestal the vict'ry, but forget that man was born to die! 3. Yet he who frequently has said, That numbers don't avail, Inspir'd us not to be dismay'd, But stand, fight, and prevail: The battle join'd, the foe gave way, Superior valour own'd, And left to us a glorious day, With spoils and honours crown'd: Each single _Prussian_ arm the hero play'd, Dealt round an hundred deaths, an hundred conquests made. 4. Is it to fortune then I owe This unthought for success? Fortune is blind, it can't be so, I must some other guess: JUSTICE, bright heav'nly maid, beheld The dire contention rise, Saw, and her sacred beam she held Suspended in the skies: The _Austrian_ scale kick'd up, by our's weigh'd down, Justice approv'd, and straight ordain'd the field to be our own. _New Amer. Mag._, No. V-119, May 1758, Woodbridge in N. J.