 | The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar |  |
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.
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.
But the fever is—well,
No thing to be braved, at least;
227
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.
| The Collected Poetry of Paul Laurence Dunbar | |