Spancil Hill

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

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T'was on the twenty third of 
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June,the day before the fair,
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When Ireland's sons and 
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daughters,and friends assembled 
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there,
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The young, the old, the brave, the 
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bo came their duty to fill,
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At the parish Church at Clooney,a 
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mile from Spancil Hill.

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I went to see me neighbours to 
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hear what they might say,
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The old one's were all dead and 
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gone,the young one's turning grey,
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I met the tailor Quigley,he's as 
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bold as ever still,
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Sure he used to mend my britches 
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when I lived in Spancil Hill.

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