A lilt and a swing, br And a ditty to sing, br Or ever the night grow old; br The wine is within, br And I'm sure t'were a sin br For a soldier to choose to be cold, my dear, br For a soldier to choose to be cold. br We're right for a spell, br But the fever is -- well, br No thing to be braved, at least; br So bring me the wine; br No low fever in mine, br For a drink more kind than a priest, my dear, br For a drink is more kind than a br priest.