At the Tavern
A lilt and a swing,And a ditty to sing,Or ever the night grow old;The wine is within,And I ‘m sure ‘t were a sinFor a soldier to choose to be cold, my dear,For a soldier to choose to be cold.
We ‘re right for a spell,But the fever is—well,No thing to be braved, at least;So bring me the wine;No low fever in mine,For a drink is more kind than a priest, my dear,For a drink is more kind than a priest.