There's a lovely drinkin' song
Called "A Jug of Punch"
♪
Punch is made here in America apparently
With rum or something like that
But in Ireland it's naturally enough made with Irish whiskey
We have a glass and a spoon, and some hot water
Squeeze of lemon, some sugar, some cloves
Naw, you don't need the cloves, you don't need 'em
(Don't mind cloves)
Don't really need the hot water either
Well, it's a lovely drink anyway
And, this is a song that an old man might sing in the evening
An old man whose whole life had been sweetened
By the drinking of punch (yes, Paddy)
He sort of growls it out one evening
As the world is slipping out of focus
Starts out very quietly, and very poetically
And rapidly deteriorates, like a good night of drinking
Jug of Punch, when they're in tune, are ye in tune?
Anyway, all good people should join the chorus of this song
Anybody who has ever tasted punch

It's lovely
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 a snug turf 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 (I like that Paddy, sing)
Even the cripple forgets his hunch
When he's snug outside of a jug of punch
And 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, oh well the money's me own
And them don't like me, they can leave me alone (give it hell, Paddy boy)
I'll tune my fiddle and I'll rosin my bow
And I'll be welcome wherever I go
And too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay
Too-ra-loo-ra-loo, too-ra-loo-ra-lay
I'll tune my fiddle and I'll rosin me bow
And I'll be welcome wherever I go
And when I'm dead and in my grave
No costly tombstone will I have (not this one, Paddy!)
Just lay me down in my native peat
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 peat
With a jug of punch at my head and feet
Fill 'em up again, lads!