Jug Of Punch
'Twas very, early, in the month of June,
I was sitting with my little room,
A small bird sat on an ivy bunch,
And the song he sang was a jug of punch.
(always repeat the last two lines of each verse)
If I were sick, and very bad,
And were 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 turf fire,
Upon his knee a pretty wench,
And upon his table a jug of punch.
And when I'm dead and in my grave,
No costly tombstone will I have,
I'll dig a grave both wide and deep,
With a jug of punch at my head and feet.