JUG OF PUNCH
One pleasant evening in the month of June
As I was sitting with my glass and spoon
A small bird sat on an ivy bunch
And the song he sang was the jug of punch
Chorus:
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay
(Last two lines of verse)
What more diversion can a man desire
Than to sit him down by a snug turf fire
Upon his knee a pretty wench
Aye, and on the table a jug of punch
Let the doctors come with all their art
They'll make no impression upon my heart
Even the cripple forgets his hunch
When he's snug outside of a jug of punch
And if I get drunk, well the money's me own
And them don't like me they can leave me alone
I'll tune my fiddle and I'll rosin my bow
And I'll be welcome wherever I go
And when I'm dead and in my grave
No costly tombstone will I have
Just lay me down in my native peat
With a jug of punch at my head and feet