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 snug 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 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 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 peat, Where the 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 peat, Where the jug of punch at my head and feet.*