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 sin For 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.