The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/At The Tavern

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.