Spancil Hill
 
Written by Michael Considine
 
Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by.  
My mind been bent on rambling to Ireland I did fly. 
I stepped on board a vision and I followed with a will.  
‘Til next I came to anchor at the cross in Spancil Hill.
 
Been on the twenty-third of June the day before the fair. 
When Ireland’s sons and daughters and crowds assembled there. 
The young, the old, the brave and the bold
came their duty to fulfill. 
At the parish church in Clooney, a mile from Spancil Hill.
 
I went to see me neighbours to see what they might say. 
The old ones were all dead and gone,
the young ones turning grey. 
But I met with the tailor Quigley, he’s as bold as ever still. 
Ah, he used to make me britches when I lived at Spancil Hill.
 
I paid a flying visit to my first and only love. 
She’s as white as any lily, as gentle as a dove.  
She threw her arms around me, saying Michael I love you still. 
She’s was the ranger’s daughter and the pride of Spancil Hill.
 
I dreamt I knelt and kissed her as in the days of yore. 
Ah, Micheal you’re only joking as many the times before. 
Then the cock he crew in the morning,
and he crew both loud and shrill. 
I awoke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill.