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 more kind than a priest, my dear,
 For a drink is more kind than a
      priest.