He came across from Ireland
in eighteen fifty three,
a son his father wanted
to grow up being free.
Fed stories of the atrocity
that passed for British rule,
his character thrived on freedom
this man was no one's fool.
Peter O'Malley grew to manhood
in the Shenandoah Valley,
and around the Confederate colors
as a soldier he would rally.
Not fighting for wicked slavery
he would own no other man,
foursquare against big government
is where he took his stand.
An Irish brigade of immigrants
was organized at war's onset,
and under that Celtic banner
every man would proudly step.
Until that day at Fredericksburg
when his values got shook out,
hearing the lilt of his homeland
in the enemy’s bawl and shout.
Across the field of battle
came a flag of Kelly green,
and his heart froze in his gullet
at what that had to mean.
A golden harp was upon it
visible through the smoke,
as he cursed the sight in blasphemy
at fate's hard cruel stroke.
Orders shouted with an accent
that sounded queer the same,
aye, 'twas a brogue he listened to
and he hung his head in shame.
For all Irishmen were brothers
under the heel of the English boot,
and a man from County Kildare
he would not willingly shoot.
Unable to raise his rifle
he retired to the rear,
officers ordering his return
saw his eyes were full of tears.
But military rules are rigid
and O'Malley could not escape,
the judgment of courts martial
where he stoically learned his fate.
This proud son of a patriot
cherished values so much higher,
sacrificing his life because
at an Irishman he would not fire.
by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved
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