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.



Chorus



Toor-a-loora-loo, toor-a-loora-loo,

Toor-a-loora-loo, toor-a-loora-loo,

(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.