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

It being the 23rd of June, the day before the fair,
Where 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 near Clooney, a mile from Spancil Hill.

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

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

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