Last night as I lay dreamin' of pleasant days gone by Me mind bein' bent on rambelin' to Ireland I did fly. I stepped on aboard a vision, and I followed with a will And I shortly came to anchor at the cross near 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 being the 23rd of June, the day before the fair. Where Ireland's sons and daughters in crowds assembled there. The young, the old, the brave, the bold, they came to sport and kill. There were curious combinations at the fair at Spancil Hill.
I went to see my neighbours to hear what they might say. The old ones were all dead and gone, the young ones turning grey. I met with 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 white as any lily and gentle as a dove She threw her arms around me saying 'Johnny, I love you still'. She's Meg, the ranger's daughter and the pride of Spancil Hill.
I dreamt I stooped and kissed her as in the days of 'ore. She said 'Johnny, you're only joking' as many the time before The cock crew in the mornin', he crew both loud and shrill. And I woke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill.
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