Writings (of old and present) & Futuristics~

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Last night as I lay dreaming
~ of pleasant days gone by
My mind being bent on rambling
~ to Ireland I did fly
I stepped on board a vision
~ and followed with the will
Till next I came to anchor at
~ the cross near Spancil Hill

Delighted by the novelty
~ enchanted by the scene
Where in my early boyhood
~ so often I had been
I thought I heard a murmur
~ and I think I hear it still
It's that little stream of water
~ that flows down Spancil Hill

Being on th twenty third of June
~ the day before the Fair
When Ireland's sons & daughters
~ in crowds assembled there
The young, the old, the brave & the bold
~ their duty came to fulfill
At the Parish Church at Clooney
~ just a mile from Spancil Hill

I went to see my neighbours
~ to hear what they might say
the old ones were all dead and gone
~ the young ones turning gray
I met the tailor -- Quigley, his name --
~ he's as bold as ever still
Sure he used to mend my britches
~ when I lived in Spancil Hill

I paid a flying visit
~ to my first & only love
She's as fair as the fairest lily
~ and gentle as a dove
She threw her arms around me
~ saying "Johnny I love you still"
She was Daffodil, the farmer's daughter
~ and the Pride of Spancil Hill

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