Spancil Hill

by Michael Considine

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 a will
And shortly came to anchor at the cross in Spancil Hill

It been on the twenty-third of June, the day before the fair
When Ireland's sons and daughters and friends assembled there
The young, the old, the brave, and the bold came, their duty to fulfill
At the parish church in Clooney, a mile from 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
But I met the tailor Quigley; he's as bold as ever still
Sure, he used to make me britches when I lived at Spancil Hill

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

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