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Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by,
My mind then bent on rambling, to Ireland I did fly;
I stepped on board a vision and I followed with a will,
Till next I came to anchor at the cross on Spancil Hill.
Being on the twenty-third of June the day before the fair,
With Ireland's sons and daughters and friends assembled there;
The young, the old, the brave and the bold, their duty to fulfill,
At the parish church in Clooney one mile from Spancil Hill.
I went to see my neighbors to see what they might say,
The old ones were all dead and gone, the young ones were turning gray;
I met the tailor, Quigley, he's as bald as ever still,
He used to make my breeches when I lived in Spancil Hill.
I paid another visit to my first and only love,
She's as white as any lily as gentle as the dove;
She threw her arms around me saying, "Johnny, I love you still."
Ah, she's yet the farmer's daughter and the pride of Spancil Hill.
I dreamed I knelt and kissed her as in the days of yore,
"Ah, Johnny, you're only joking, as many's the time before."
Then the cock he crew next morning, ah, he crew both loud and shrill,
And I woke in Californ-ey-ay, many miles from Spancil Hill.
