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.