The Lost Path
AIR--_Grádh
mo chroidhe._
I.
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.
II.
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.
III.
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.
