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.Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,A small bird sat on an ivy bunch, And the song he sang was the jug of punch.What more diversion can a man desire Than to sit him down by an alehouse fire,Upon his knee a pretty wench, Aye, and on the table a jug of punch?Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,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 snuck outside of a jug of punch.Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,Even the cripple forgets his hunch When he's snuck outside of a jug of punch.And if I get drunk, oh, well, the money's me own, And them don't like me, they can leave me alone.I'll tune me fiddle, and I'll rosin me bow, And I'll be welcome wherever I go.Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,I'll tune me fiddle, and I'll rosin me bow, And I'll be welcome wherever I go.And when I'm dead, I end in my grave, No costly tombstone will I have.Just lay me down in my native Pete, With a jug of punch at my head and feet.Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay,Just lay me down in my native Pete, With a jug of punch at my head and feet.*