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.