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
It´s the little stream of water that flows down Spancil Hill
It bein´ on the 23rd of June, the day before the fair
When Ireland´s 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, he´s 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
She´s as white as any lily, she´s as gentle as a dove
She threw her arms around me, saying "Johnny, I love you still"
Ah, she´s Ned, the farmer´s daughter, the pride of Spancil Hill
I dreamed I held and kissed her as in the days of yore
She said "Oh Johnny, you´re only joking as many´s 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
