The Glory of Phelim O’toole

Dear Daddie, I take up my pencil To tell you the news of the day— How I wish the sad war was all over, And me in Killala Bay!

It is dreadful to be with these poor men, That once were so strong and so brave, Now mangled and torn;—it were better To put them at rest in the grave.

O Father! how can I but tell it: Our Phelim O’Toole,—is not—dead— But wounded, he suffers that dreadful,— I write while I watch by his bed.

They brought him here, maimed and delirious,— He doesn’t know I am his nurse; And the doctor has said we will lose him, If ever his fever gets worse.

Near dead am I watching the nights through, With never a minute of sleep; Small use have I now for these sad eyes, Excepting to watch and to weep.

And Mickey O’More it was brought him,— Ye mind him, that small freckled lad? His blue eyes of laughter? God bless him!— He took on for Phelim so bad.

He told me how Phelim got hurted, The glory he did in that war: I’ll tell it ye here on this paper, Be the language of Mickey O’More:—

Says Mickey, “Ah Maggie, I seen him In the hot of it, time and again! I’ll never forget in that wild charge So grand was he, leading his men.—

“You see, it was this way, the Boches Outnumbered us twenty to one, And now they had planned a great effort, To whip us and force us to run.

“For one of them spied out our trouble,— What was it? Our powder was low!— A cartridge! ’twas worth a goold guinea!— Our gun-fire was feeble and slow.

“Of course, if we once got to running, They’d follow with bay’net and shot; And few of the English and Irish Would ever return from that spot.

“The General (wise to their tactics) Gave orders to Phelim O’Toole; Says he, ‘It is often the best plan For wise men to hazard the fool;

“‘Get out your brigade of brave Irish And charge up that hill, on the right— The Proossians will argue we done it To bring on a general fight;

“‘By which they will guess re-enforcements,— Perhaps a reserve in the rear,— And that will delay their maneuvers, Until we can get out of here.

“‘Stick to it, my lad, till you scare them; Destroy all the guns that you can: Come back when we feint to support you— God help you, my brave Irish man.’

“‘Come back,’ says I, ‘Sure with the angels!’ But Phelim swore, ‘Devils in pitch! Come on my boys! Charge! To the Dutchmen! Ho! Follow me! Out of the ditch!’

“Those divils from Ireland! God bless them! They follow him up to the hill, Flat down on their bellies they’re crawling— On! upward! they struggle until

“The long line of blood that’s behind them Gives pause to the bravest man there;— But, just as they waver, up Phelim Jumps, swinging his gun in the air;

“A target for thousands of Boches, He stands on the top of a stone, And shouts like a god in that wild din, ‘Come on, boys! I charge ’em alone!’

“Oh then, you can see a strange glitter A-light in the eyes of his men; No torment of grim death can stop them— They follow their leader again.”

O Daddy! I knew what was coming— Your Maggie fell down in a swoon; And Mickey took on like a wild man, For fright of it—luckily, soon,

I came to myself, but my head swam; A dizzy feel blinded my eyes; And, while I was foolish, I moaned out, “Don’t tell it me! tell me no lies!”

What for did I get to my right mind? ’Tis sorrow we love here, not mirth; We pluck the sweet flower from the green stem, Smile on it, and crush it to earth.—

“O Mickey, o’chone, ye must tell it!— Hush Mickey, ye’ll murther me dead!” And so I wailed under my sorrow, Too wild-like to know what I said.

And when I was worn out with weeping, Again, I could listen to him; And oh, what he told of those Germans! Bed cess to the nation of thim.—

But guess now, dear Father, what happened? While writing you this, by his bed, And while I was teeming with anger, He opened his eyes, and he said:

“What dream is this? is it a vision? Or is it a dear ghost I see? I thought I was kilt on that steep hill; God help me! that’s Maggie McGee!

“Are you, too, my colleen, a spirit? Your sweet life put out in that war? Dear God! must they slaughter such children, To humour that crazed Emperor?”

His words were that strange, but his clear eyes With nothing of madness shone; And when I leaned over and kissed him, I knew that his fever had gone.

That good news broke into the sad tale Our poor little Mickey had told.— And he’s to the war, such a small man, With his big heart of purified gold.

And, O my dear Father! the doctor Assures me that Phelim will live; And when he gets well we will come back,— And your little Maggie will give

The strength of her two arms to Phelim,— My darling, brave, one-armed boy!— And do ye remember that cottage That’s close by the banks of the Moy?