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