| Last night as I lay dreaming
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| Of pleasant days gone by
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| Me mind been bent on rambling
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| To Ireland I did fly
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| I stepped on board a vision
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| And followed with a will
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| Till next I came to anchor
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| At the cross near Spancill Hill
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| Delighted by the novelty
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| Enchanted with the scene
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| Where in me early boyhood — often I had been
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| I thought I heard a murmur
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| And I think I hear it still
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| It’s the little stream of water
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| That flows down Spancill Hill
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| To amuse a passing fancy
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| I lay down on the ground
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| And all my school companions
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| They shortly gathered round
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| When we were home returning
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| We danced with bright goodwill
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| To Martin Moynahan’s music
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| At the cross at Spancill Hill
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| It was on the 24th of June
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| The day before the fair
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| When Ireland’s sons and daughters
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| And all assembled there
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| The young, the old, the brave, the bold
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| Came their duty to fulfil
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| At the little church in Clooney
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| A mile from Spancill Hill
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| I went to see me neighbours
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| To see what they might say
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| The old ones they were dead and gone
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| The young ones turning grey
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| I met the tailor Quigley, he was bold as ever still
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| Sure he used to make my britches
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| When I lived at Spancill Hill
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| I paid a flying visit to me first and only love
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| She’s as fair as any lilly and gentle as a dove
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| She threw her arms around me
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| Crying «Johnny I love you still»
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| She was a farmer’s daughter
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| The pride of Spancill Hill
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| Well I dreamt I hugged and kissed her
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| As in the days of yore
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| She said «Johnny you’re only joking»
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| As many the times before
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| The cock crew in the morning
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| He crew both loud and shrill
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| And I awoke in California
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| Many miles from Spancill Hill |