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From Clare to Here

The Wild Rover

Spancell Hill

I Tell me Ma

Island Spnning Song

Black is The Coulour

 

 

Spancell hill

 

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 vessel and I followed with the wind

When next I came to Anchora, the Cross and Spancell Hill.

 

Being on the twenty –third of June, the day before the fair

When Ireland sons and daughters and friends assembled there,

The young, the old, the brave and the bold came their duty to fulfil

At the parish church of Plumey, a mile from Spancell Hill.

 

I went to see my neighbours, to see what they might say

The old ones were ace dead and gone, the young ones turning grey,

I met the taylor Quigley he's as bold as ever still

Sure he used to make me breeches when I lived in Spancell Hill.

 

I paid a flying visit to my first and only love.

She's as white as a lily and gentle as a dove,

She threw her arms around me, saying : "Johnny, I love you still!"

Oh, she's Ned the farmer's daughter and the pride of Spancell Hill.

 

I dreamt I held and kissed her like in the days of yore

"Oh Johnny you're only joking, as many a time before !"

The cock he crew in the morning, he crew both loud and shrill,

When I woke in Californy, many miles from Spancell Hill.

 

 

I tell me Ma

 

Refrain

I tell me Ma when I go home,

The boys won't leave the girls alone,

They pulled my hair and stole my comb,

But that's all right till I go home,

She is handsome, She is pretty,

She is the belle of Belfast city,

She is courtin'one, two, three,

Please, won't you tell me who is She ?

 

Well, Albert Mooney says he loves her,

All the boys are fighting for her,

They knock at the door and they ring at the bell,

Sayin', "O my true love are you well ?",

Out She comes as white as snow,

Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

Ould Johnny Murray says She'll die,

If She doesn't get the fellow with the roving eye.

 

Let the wind and the rain and the hail blow high,

And the snow come travelling from the sky,

She's as nice as apple pie,

And She'll gets a lad of her own,

She won't tell her ma when She comes home,

Let them all come as they will,

For it's Albert Mooney She loves still.

 

 

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