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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.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay.
A small bird sat on an ivy bunch,
And the song he sang was the jug of punch.
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.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay.
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.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay.
Even the cripple forgets his hunch,
When he's snug outside of a jug of punch.
Ye mortal lords, drink your nectar wine,
And ye quality folk, sip your claret fine;
I'd give them all the grapes in the bunch,
For a jolly pull at my jug of punch.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay.
I'd give them all the grapes in the bunch,
For a jolly pull at my 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.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay.
I'll tune me fiddle and I'll rosin me 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.
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay.
Just lay me down in my native peat,
With a jug of punch at my head and feet.
