One pleasant evening in the month of June,
As I was sitting with my glass and spoon,
A small bird sat upon an ivy bunch,
And the song he sang was a «Jug of Punch.»
(chorus)
Tur-a-lur-a-lu, tur-a-lur-a-lu,
Tur-a-lur-a-lu, tur-a-lur-a-lu,
A small bird sat upon an ivy bunch,
And the song he sang was a «Jug of Punch.»
{The last two lines of the chorus are the last two lines of the
Previous verse.}
What more diversion can a man desire,
Than to sit himself down, by a small turf fire,
Upon his knee, a pretty wench,
And on his table, a jug of punch.
(chorus)
Let the doctors come with all their art,
They’ll make no impression on my heart,
Even a cripple forgets his hunch,
When he’s snug outside of a jug of punch.
(chorus)
And if I get drunk, well my money’s my own,
And them that don’t like me can leave me alone,
I’ll tune my fiddle and rosin my bow,
And I’ll be welcome wherever I go.
(chorus)
