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