A Dream in the Trenches

Now this is me tale;—aw now Mickey forget it, Ye tyke! not the least tail o’ me; But the tale I’m a telling.—The weather was awful, That nasty you never did see.

The Huns had been shelling us (snug in our trenches) Their mortyars kept booming a wake; And what wit’ the charges and sniping around us, No slape and no rest could I take.

Saint Pathrick (or something) took care of the Irish, The Proossians were caught at their tricks; They crept, in the midnight, to ketch us a-slapeing, And gotta good fill of the Micks.

We caught them betwixt and betchune the two ditches, And gave them a dose of cold steel; ’Twas like a pig-sticking, me arms got that weary, For numbness I hardly could feel.

Well, when it was over, the dead men were lively Compared with the likes of meself;— Begobs we were safe, till the dawn o’ the morning,— I took a big snore on me shelf.

Holy Moses! the night-mares that galloped around me! Till dawn of the morning was gray, I thought I was walking through miles of deep trenches That twisted like snakes the wrong way.

And then I was lost in the thick of a forest, And shells were the fruit of the trees; They busted and killed such a plenty of Boches I waded in blood to my knees.

I stood on an old stump, surrounded by soldiers; They grew from the trees and the stones; I handed the biggest a jab of my bay’net, I felt it go grit in his bones.

The bay’net stuck in him; I tried to unloose it, To get at the rest of my foes; It would not come out, and I could not unhand it, Be dad! to the gun I was froze.—

Now Mickey quit winkin’ and japein’ that foolish, Suppose ye were in such a fix; Ye’d call it great sport, and the Proossians around you? I say, like the Huns, “aber nix.”

“’Tis the divil’s own tale ye are after the telling, Remember this, Phelim O’Toole, Ye said ye were froze to the holt of your musket, Explain, if ye’re not a big fool.”

“Aw Mickey! I saw in the light of me drameing, And all was too dark for to see; But now, an ye listen, I’ll tell you what happened When sunlight was shining on me.

“Of course, what I’m after the telling was nightmares But now I’m awake in me tale, And when I’m awake I’m that wonderful truthful,— A lie! whist, to tell it I’d fail.”—

Now when I awoke, in the midst of me right mind, On me left I was lying stretched out; And the Huns be the hundred were scatthered around me; Stark dead they were litthered about.

And their blood! ’twas a lake of it, frozen and brittle, And there I was held in that ice; And the musket that filled Mickey’s head with a wonder, Was held in me grip like a vice.

And from it red icicles shone in the sunlight, Belave it or not, I don’t care; But the worst of it was, I was held like a prisoner, And no one could pull me from there.

’Twas a sight for the Irish! alive as the divil, And held by a Proossian that’s dead!— “Whist! Phelim O’Toole, ’tis a taffy you give us, There’s nothing but lies in your head.”—

“Now Mickey, what for do ye so interrupt me, In coorse I got out of me fix; Just wait a bit, faith, and ye’ll have to belave me, Both you and the rest of the Micks.”—

A Parlevoo came to the rescue of Erin— He grabbed up some fresh dinnymite,— He placed it, and parlevooed, begged of me pardon,— And touched it off, biff!—out of sight

Sails I in the air like a scout on an airship!— Comes I to me camp, to me friends!— Faith, Mickey O’More, be the saints, I have proved it; The tail of me narrative ends.