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 followed with a will When next I came to anchor at the cross in Spancil Hill Delighted by the novelty, enchanted by the scene. Where in me early boyhood so often I had been. I thought I heard a murmur and I think I hear it still. It's that little stream of water that flows down Spancil Hill. Been on the twenty-third of June the day before the fair When Irelands sons and daughters in crowds assembled there The young, the old, the brave and the bold, their duty to fulfill At the parish church of Clooney, a mile from Spancil Hill I went to see me neighbours to hear what they might say The old ones were all dead and gone and the young ones turning grey I met the tailor Quigley, he's as bold as ever still Showed me ... to make my britches when I lived at Spancil Hill I paid a flying visit to my first and only love She's as fair as any lily and gentle as a dove She threw her arms around me, saying Johnny I love you still Ah, she's now a farmer's daughter, the pride of Spancil Hill I dreamt I knelt and kissed her as in the days of yore She said: Johnny you're only joking as many the time before Then the cock he crew in the morning, he crew both loud and shrill I awoke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill