[00:07.28]Under the archway across the cold courtyard
[00:14.47]Up the stone stairway all pitted and worn
[00:20.69]To a room in a shambles with orange-boxes for chairs
[00:27.70]Our lives lay scattered still yet to be born
[00:40.32]Daylight would show you the cracks in the ceiling
[00:47.11]Wallpaper hanging all tattered and torn
[00:53.66]It looks like a junkyard of paraphernalia
[01:00.54]Where three dreamers dreamed dreams still yet to be born
[01:13.26]One was a dreamer a love-torn romantic
[01:19.77]Who sang ballads of barons and ladies forlorn
[01:26.35]Who carved love-chains of oakwood to capture his sweethearts
[01:33.72]And life lay before him still yet to be born
[01:46.00]The other was a maker of dreams from his fingers
[01:52.71]Like a harp from old Ireland that would play night and morn
[01:59.40]He would weave you and spin you a yarn to remember
[02:06.39]And leave you with sweet dreams still yet to be born