At The Tavern

Paul Laurence Dunbar

       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.

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