Spancil Hill (Traditional)

The lyrics to Spancil Hill tell the story of an Irish immigrant in America who dreams of returning home to his lover and his family. They were written by Michael Considine, probably around 1870, when he was just 23 years old and very ill.
Cette chanson raconte l'histoire d'un immigrant Irlandais en Amérique qui rêve de retourner chez lui retrouver sa fiancée et sa famille. Elle a été écrite vers 1870 par Michael Considine, alors qu'il avait juste 23 ans et était à l'article de la mort.

SPANCIL HILL (Lyrics)

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 sailed out with a will,
I gladly came to anchor, at the cross of Spancil Hill.

Enchanted by the novelty, delighted with the scenes,
Where in my early childhood, I often times have been.
I thought I heard a murmur, I think I hear it still,
That little stream of water, at the cross of Spancil Hill.

And to amuse my fancy, I lay upon the ground,
Where all my school companions, in crowds assembled ‘round.
Some have grown to manhood, while more their graves did fill,
Oh, I thought we were young again, at the Cross of Spancil Hill.

It being on a Sabbath morning, I thought I heard a bell,
Over hills and valleys sounded, in notes that seemed to tell,
That Father Dan was coming, his duty to fulfill,
At the parish church of Clooney, one mile from Spancil Hill.

And when duty did commence, we all knelt down praying,
In hopes for to be ready, to climb the Golden Stair.
And when back home returning, we danced with right good will,
To Martin Moilens music, at the Cross of Spancil Hill.

It being on twenty third of June, the day before the fair,
Sure Erin’s sons and daughters, they all assembled there.
The young, the old, the stout and the bold, they came to sport and kill,
What a curious combination, at the Fair of Spancil Hill.

I went into my old home, as every stone can tell,
The old boreen was just the same, and the apple tree the well,
I miss my sister Ellen, my brothers Pat and Bill,
Sure I met my strange faces, at my home in Spancil Hill.

I paid a flying visit, to my first and only love,
She’s pure as any lily, and as gentle as a dove.
She threw her arms around me, saying “Mike I love you still”,
She’s Mark the Ranger’s daughter, the Pride of Spancil Hill.

But when my vision faded, the tears came in my eyes,
In hope to see that dear old spot, some day before I die.
May the Joyous King of Angels, His Choicest Blessings spill,
On that Glorious spot of Nature, the Cross of Spancil Hill.