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.