Spancil Hill taby ukulele według Christy Moore

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


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It was on the 23rd of June, the day before the fair.
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When Ireland's sons and daughters were all assembled there.
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The young, the old, the brave, the bold, their duty to fulfill.
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At the little church in Cluney, a mile from Spancil Hill.


I went to see me neighbors, to see what they would say.
The old ones they were dead and gone, the young ones turning grey.
I met with tailor Quigley, he's as bold as ever still.
Sure he used to make me britches when I lived in Spancil Hill.


I paid a flying visit, to me first and only love.
She is fair as any lily, and gentle as a dove.
She threw her arms around me, saying "Johnny, I love you still".
Oh, she's Mick the ranger's daughter, and the pride of Spancil Hill.


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

G, Em, Am