The Jug of Punch

'Twas very early in the month of June
As I was sitting in my room
A small bird sang, on an ivy bush
And the song she sang was the Jug of Punch

Too-ral loo-ral lay
Too-ral loo-ral lay
Too-ral loo-ral lay
Too-ral loo-ral lay

A small bird sang on an ivy bush
and the song she sang was the Jug of Punch

What more diversion can a man desire,
Than to be seated by a snug coal fire,
Upon his knee a pretty wench,
And on the table a jug of punch.

Now when I am dead and in my grave,
No costly tombstone will I crave
Just lay me down in my native heath
With a jug of punch at my head and feet.

From the Appletree Press title A Little Irish Songbook. Click here to order from Amazon.com or here for more info.

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