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As I was sitting with my glass and spoon
One summer evening in the month of June;
The small birds sat on an ivy bunch
And the song they sang was the Jug of Punch.

What more diversion could a man require
Than to settle down by the ale-house fire,
With a fine red pippin to crack and crunch,
And on the table a jug of punch.

Let the doctors come with all their arts
They'll make no impression upon my heart
Even the cripple forgets his hunch
When he's snug outside of a jug of punch.

If I drink too much, well, my money's my own,
And them as don't like it can leave me alone;
But I'll tune my fiddle and I'll rosin my bow
And I'll be welcome wherever I go.

Too-ra-loo-ra-lay, too-ra-loo-ra-loo,
And if I get drunk well that's nothing to you
Oh my jug of punch and my jug of punch
This song I'm singing is the Jug of Punch.

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