Traditional
'Twas very early 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-rah-loo-rah-loo, Too-rah-loo-rah-lay
Too-rah-loo-rah-loo, Too-rah-loo-rah-lay
A small bird sat on an ivy bush
And the song he sang was the jug of punch.
If I were sick and very bad
And was not able to go or stand
I would not think it at all amiss
To pledge my shoes for a jug of punch.
What more diversion can a man desire
Than to sit him down by a snug coal fire
Upon his knee a pretty wench
And upon the table a jug of punch.
And when I'm dead and in my grave
No costly tomb stone will I have
I'll dig a grave both wide and deep
With a jug of punch at my head and feet.