Stand down there be th' fince, where th' five wires commince,
Cast ye-er eye on th' range to th' west;
D'ye se a white thrack on th' hill ut th' back
Runnin' sthraight to th' fut frum th' crest?

That's th' thrack ye've to go.  'Tis a six-mile or so
To th' top, and thin four to th' town.
Haith, ye'er right, 'tis a climb, an' I've found in me time
'Tis th' divil's own thrip comin' down.

Who was Flanigan?  Wee -- have ye never heard tell
Iv th' stange an' historical spill
That same gintleman had as a love-smitten lad
Whin they christened ut Flanigan's Hill?

There was five that I know tuk a fancy to go
Playin' tricks wid th' pace on th' way;
An' not wan iv th' five did they pick up alive,
An' th' wives iv thim's widdas to-day.

There was Mickey Magee, come from town on a spree,
Tuk th' hill ut a gallop wan night,
Singin' out a refrain about niver again
Gettin' dhrunk.  An' bedad he was right!

An' this Flanigan -- well, there is little to tell --
It was when he was youthful an' gay --
That's a long time ago, but he's proud f'r to know
That they talk iv his thrip to this day.

A fine upstandin' bye, wid a bright flashing eye,
Game f'r annything -- barrin' a  girl;
An' where they were concerned, haith, his eye downward turned,
An' th' head iv him wint in a whirl.

But iv all in th' place there was wan pretty face
That he longed to be callin' his own.
F'r as pretty and sweet as ye-er wantin' to meet
Was Elizabeth Eileen Malone.

But be niver a sigh or a glance iv his eye
Did th' lad tell the state iv his heart.
Tho' he wanted her bad, shure, th' poor foolish lad
Hadn't courage his courtin' to start.

Till, wan day, to th' town pretty Lizzie came down,
An' her horse wint dead lame on th' thrack;
An' accostin' th' bye, wid a smile an' a sigh,
She enquired, "Wud he plaze dhrive her back?"

Wud he what?  Well, ye'll guess how he stammered a "Yes!"
While he blushed, as she climbed to his side
Wid a sly little, "Now, there are few I'd allow
To conduct me on such a wild ride."

"Faith," ses she, "it is thrue, there are few, barrin' you,
That's such beautiful dhrivers," ses she;
"But whin you have th' reins, shure th' girl that complains
Is a goose -- an' that girl isn't me."

An' poor Bill -- 'twas absurd -- cudn't answer a word,
An' did nothin' but stammer an' grin.
Thin a sthone sthruck th' wheel, an' she cried wid a squeal,
"Misther Flanigan, plaze hould me in!"

Hould her in?  Howly smoke!  He nigh dropped whin she spoke!
Was she sp'akin' in airnest or fun?
But he stretched out a paw wid a nervous guffaw;
Then a snuggle, a sigh, an' 'twas done.

Wid his arm round her waist an' his eye on the baste,
An' herself full iv giggles an' sighs;
Wid her head nestled down an' her hand on his own;
So they came to th' top iv th' rise.

There, she gave but wan luk down th' track, an' she tuk
A firm hould on th' arm round her waist.
Crying, "Hould me close, dear, f'r I'm frantic wid fear!"
Thin th' moke felt th' weight -- an' she raced.

'Twas as straight as a dart f'r a mile frum th' start,
Thin a creek ut th' fut, an' a fall
Where th' road takes a twist that is better not missed.
Rest ye-er soul if ye miss ut, that's all!

Shure, ther's no wan alive that cud manage to dhrive
Down that thrack wid wan hand to guide;
But no thought gave young Bill to th' creeck or th' hill,
But he luked ut th' girl be his side.

Thin his love ut found tongue, while winds whistled an' sung
By their ears as th' cart gathered way.
While they bumped and they swerved an' they cannoned an' curved,
He just sat there an' had out his say.

"Liz, me darlin'!" ses he, wid th' reins hangin' free,
An' no thought on th' britchin' or skid,
While th' moke felt th' weight an' considhered ut's fate
As ut slithered an' snorted an' slid.

Thin he tould iv his love, called on powers above
For to witness his passion an' pain.
Thin he reached f'r a kiss frum this ravishin' miss,
An' to do ut he let go th' rein.

Down th' hill wint th' moke wid th' shwingle three broke,
An' th' lovers cared never a thought,
So engrossed were th' two in their bill an' their coo,
But th' moke gave a turrified snort.

He was huggin' her now, an' wid promise an' vow
(As a hot-headed Irishman will)
He swore to be true till death parted th' two.
An' they wint on decidin' th' hill.

Whin they came near th' fut they encontered a rut,
An' th' cart made a lurch an' a tip,

But niver a care had this love-smitten' pair
As they sat heart to heart -- lip to lip.

They were nearin' th' ind, where the thrack tuk a bind,
He was nearin' th' ind iv his say,
Just beginnin' th' part where he'd ax f'r her heart,
But th' moke was beginnin' to pray.

Wid th' words on th' tips iv his passionate lips
(While th' moke gathered up f'r a jump,
Wid her eye on th' creek) he was goin' to speak,
Whin th' cart sthruck th' fince wid a bump.

Up, way up in th' air wint th' passionate pair,
Like two little love birds, side be side
On a honeymoon cruise widout scatches or bruise --
An' th' moke finished prayin' an' died.

"Will ye marry me Liz?" he sed as they riz,
An' she blushed wid a simper an' sigh,
As they came to th' top an' reversed f'r th' dhrop,
Then she opened her lips to reply.

But befure she cud speak they were down in th' creek,
Wid her mouth full iv pebbles an' mud;
An' poor Flanigan, too, was unfit to pursue
His remarks, as will be understud.

He was first to come to, wid th' half iv him blue,
An' th' other a beautiful black,
An' th' arm iv him broke where he dhropped on th' moke,
An' a quare stingin' pain in his back.

Wid a fear in his eyes he conthrived f'r to rise,
While th' pain from his lips wrung a groan,
Made his slow, painful way over there where she lay
Wid her poor little head on a shtone.

'Tis a sorraful tale.  Oh, so p'aceful an' pale
Did she lay, an' so silent an' still,
An' he gave wan wild cry -- thin she opened her eye,
An' in answer she murmured, "I will."

'Twas a miracle?  Well, 'tis th' truth that I tell;
Iv'ry word -- ax th' girl if ye will.
Ye will find her inside -- an' 'twas afther that ride
That they name th' place Flanigan's Hill.

Were they marrid?  You bet; an' the two in thim yet
Live a happy and properous life.
What?  I'm Flanigan - yes.  Ye'er a wizard to guess.
Come an' be intrajuced to me wife! 

"C.J.D."
The Critic, 12 April 1905, p28-29