The Lost Path

 AIR--_Grádh mo chroidhe._


Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,

  All comfort else has flown;

For every hope was false to me,

  And here I am, alone.

What thoughts were mine in early youth!

  Like some old Irish song,

Brimful of love, and life, and truth,

  My spirit gushed along.



I hoped to right my native isle,

  I hoped a soldier's fame,

I hoped to rest in woman's smile

  And win a minstrel's name--

Oh! little have I served my land,

  No laurels press my brow,

I have no woman's heart or hand,

  Nor minstrel honours now.



But fancy has a magic power,

  It brings me wreath and crown,

And woman's love, the self-same hour

  It smites oppression down.

Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort be,

  I have no joy beside;

Oh! throng around, and be to me

  Power, country, fame, and bride.







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