The Jug of Punch

The Jug of PunchAs I was sitting in my room,One pleasant evening in the month of June,I heard a thrush singing in a bush,And the tune he sang was a jug o' punch.Too ra loo! too ra loo! Too ra loo! too ra loo!A jug o' punch, a jug o' punch,The tune he sung was a jug o' punch.

What more divarshin might a man desireThan to be sated by a nate turf fire,And by his side a purty wench,And on the table a jug o' punch?Toor a loo, &c.

The Muses twelve and Apollio famed,In Castilian pride dhrinks pernicious sthrames;But I would not grudge them tin times as much,As long as I had a jug o' punch.Toor a loo, &c.

Then the mortial gods dhrinks their necthar wine,And they tell me claret is very fine;But I'd give them all, just in a bunch,For one jolly pull at a jug o' punch.Toor a loo, &c.

The docthor fails with all his art,To cure an imprission an the heart;But if life was gone―within an inch―What would bring it back like a jug o' punch?Toor a loo, &c.

But when I am dead and in my grave,No costly tomb-stone will I crave;But I'll dig a grave both wide and deep,With a jug o' punch at my head and feet.Toor a loo, toor a loo, toor a loo, fol dol dhe roll;A jug o' punch! a jug o' punch!!Oh! more power to your elbow, my jug o' punch!!!