SPANCIL HILL

Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by,
My mind being bent on rambling, to Ireland I did fly.
I stepped on board a vision and I followed with the wind
And I shortly came to anchor at the cross of Spancil Hill.

It being the 23rd June, the day before the fair,
When Ireland's sons and daughters in crowds assembled there,
The young and the old, the brave and the bold, their journey to fulfill,
There were jovial conversations at the fair of Spancil Hill.

I went to see my neighbors to hear what they might say.
The old ones were all dead and gone and the young ones turning grey.
I met with the tailor Quigley. He's as bold as ever still.
Sure he used to make my britches when I lived in Spancil Hill.

I paid a flying visit to my first and only love.
She's as white as any lily and as gentle as a dove.
She threw her arms around me saying, "Johnny, I love you still."
Oh, she's Ned the farmer's daughter and the flower of Spancil Hill.

I dreamt I held and kissed her as in the days of yore.
She said, "Johnny, you're only joking like many's the time before."
The cock he crew in the morning. He crew both loud and shrill,
And I awoke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill.