|
{Left}
|
Spancil Hill
Last night as I lay dreaming,
of pleasant days gone by.
Me mind was bent on ramblin'
to Ireland I did fly.
I stepped on board a vision,
and followed with my will...
'Till next I came to anchor,
At the cross near Spancil Hill.
Delighted by the novelty
Enachanted by the scene
Where in my early boyhood,
where oft times I had been
I thought I heard a murmur
I think I hear it still...
It's a little stream of water,
that flows down Spancil Hill.
It been the 23rd Of June,
The day before the faire
When Ireland's sons and daughters
and crowds assembled there.
The young, the old, the brave and bold
Their duties to full-fill
At the parish church of Clooney
'Bout a mile from Spancil Hill.
I went to see my neighbors,
to hear what they might say.
The old ones they're all dead and gone...
The young ones turing gray.
I met the tailor, Quiggley..
He's as bold as ever still
For he used to make my britches,
When I lived at Spancil Hill
I paid a flying visit to
My first and only love.
She's fair as any lily,
And gentle as a dove
She threw her arms around me
Saying "Johnny, I love ya still!"
She's Meg, the Farmer's Daugher
And the pride of Spancil Hill
I dreampt I stooped and kissed her
as in the days of yore.
She said Johnny you're only joking
as many times before!
The cock crewed in the morning,
he crewed both loud and shrill.
I woke without my own true love,
many miles from Spancil Hill.
To hear a version of this song by Twisty Willow from MP3.com go
here.
|
Help keep us online. Book your
travel here, or patronize some of these folke:
|
