The Vagabond

The little dream she had forgot Oh, long and long ago, Came back across the April fields And touched her garment so (As might a wind-blown primrose cling And one scarce guess or know.) A little beggared outcast dream Forgot of Love and men, And all because a fiddler played An old song in the glen, And two Young Lovers hand in hand, Sent back its tune again. The little dream she had forgot Crept near and clung and stayed— A roving, ragged vagabond Half daring, half afraid, And all because young love went by And one old fiddler played.