Poetry Archives

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.