Spancil Hill

Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by,
Me mind being' bent on rambling to Ireland I did fly,
I stepped aboard a vision and followed with my will,
Till next I came to anchor at the cross near Spancil Hill.

Delighted by the novelty, enchanted with the scene,
Where in my early boyhood where 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 being the twenty-third of June, the day before the fair,
When Ireland's sons and daughters in crowds assembled there.
The young, the old, the brave and the bold, they came for sport and kill,
There were jovial conversations at the cross of Spancil Hill.

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

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