| Last night as I lay dreamin' |
| Of pleasant days gone by |
| Me mind bein' bent on travelin' |
| To Ireland I did fly |
| I stepped aboard a vision |
| and followed with my will |
| 'Til next I came to anchor |
| At the cross near Spancil Hill |
| Delighted by the novelty |
| Enchanted with the scene |
| Where in my early boyhood |
| Where often I had been |
| I thought I heard a murmur |
| And 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 and the bold |
| They came for sport and kill |
| There were jovial conversations |
| At the cross near Spancil Hill |
| I went to see my neighbours |
| To hear what they might say |
| The old ones were all dead and gone |
| The others 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 farmers daughter |
| And the pride of Spancil Hill |
| I dreamt I stooped and kissed her |
| As in the day of 'ore |
| She said Johnny you’re only joking |
| As many the times before |
| The cock crew in the morn' |
| He crew both loud and shrill |
| And I woke in California |
| Many miles from Spancil Hill |