AT THE TAVERN - Paul Laurence Dunbar Poems

 
 

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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.