The Jug of Punch
© 2007 by Paul Espinoza,
Forest Moon Music, BMI, all rights reserved

 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

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.

Copyright © 1998 - 2007 by Golden Bough, Inc.