Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by Me mind been bent on rambling, to Ireland I did fly I stepped on board a vision and I followed with a will When next I came to anchor at the cross of Spancil Hill
Delighted by the novelty, enchanted by the scene Where in my early boyhood so often I had been I thought I heard a murmur and I think I hear it still Itґs the little stream of water that flows down Spancil Hill
It beinґ on the 23rd of June, the day before the fair When Irelandґs sons and daughters and friends assembled there The yound, the old, the brave and the bold came their duty to fulfill At the parish church near Clooney, a mile from Spancil Hill
I went to see me neighbours, to hear what they might say The old ones where all dead and gone, the young ones turning grey I met the tailor Quigley, heґs as bold as ever still Sure he used to make me breeches when I lived in Spancil Hill
I payed a flying visit to me first and only love Sheґs as white as any lily, sheґs as gentle as a dove She threw her arms around me, saying "Johnny, I love you still" Ah, sheґs Ned, the farmerґs daughter, the pride of Spancil Hill
I dreamed I held and kissed her as in the days of yore She said "Oh Johnny, youґre only joking as manyґs the time before" The cock, he crew in the morning, he crew both loud and shrill I awoke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill
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