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 followed with a wind,
Till the next I came to anchor at the cross near Spancil Hill,
T'was 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, the bo came their duty to fill,
At the parish Church at Clooney,a mile from Spancil Hill.
I went to see me neighbours to hear what they might say,
The old one's were all dead and gone,the young one's turning grey,
I met the tailor Quigley,he's as bold as ever still,
Sure he used to mend my britches when I lived in Spancil Hill.
I paid a flying visit to my first and only love,
She's fair as any lilly as gentle as a dove,
She threw her arms around me saying "Johnny I love you still"
She was Meg the farmer's daughter,the pride of Spancil Hill.
She was Meg the farmer's daughter,the pride of Spancil Hill.