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Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by |
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Me mind being bent on rambling to Ireland I did fly |
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I stepped on board a vision and I followed with a will |
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Till next I came to anchor at the cross at Spancil Hill |
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It being on the twenty third of June, the day before the fair |
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When Ireland's sons and daughters and friends assembled there |
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The young, the old, the brave and the bold, came there, duty to fulfill |
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At the parish church in Clooney, a mile from Spancil Hill |
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I went to see me neighbors, to see what they might say |
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The old ones were all dead and gone, the young ones turning gray |
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But I met the tailor Quigley, he's as bold as ever still |
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Ah, he used to mend me britches when I lived in Spancil Hill |
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I paid a flying visit to my first and only love |
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She's as white as any lily, gentle as a dove |
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And she threw her arms around me saying, "Johnny, I love you still" |
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As she's Nell the farmer's daughter and the pride of Spancil Hill |
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I dreamt, I held and kissed her as in the days of yore |
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I've Johnny, you're only jokin', as many's the time before |
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Then the cock, he crew in the morning, he crew both loud and shrill |
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I awoke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill |
