Jug of Punch (Live)

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 whisky

You have a glass and a spoon and some hot water

Squeeze of lemon, some sugar

Some cloves (Naw, you don't need the cloves)

Don't really need the hot water either

But it's a lovely drink anyway

And, uh, this is a song that an old man might sing in the evening

An old man who's whole life had been sweetened by the drinking

Of punch

(Yes, Paddy) And, uh, he

He sorta 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

Anyway, all, uh, good people should join the chorus of this song

Anyone who's 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-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-lay

Too-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-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-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-lay

Too-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-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 (How you like that, Paddy?)

Even the cripple forgets his hunch

When he's snug outside of a jug of punch

And too-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-lay

Too-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-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 (Sing it)

I'll chung me fiddle and I'll rosin me bow

And I'll be welcome wherever I go

And too-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-lay

Too-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-lay

I'll chung me 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)

Just lay me down in my native peat

With a jug of punch at my head and feet

And too-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-lay

Too-ta-loo-ta-loo, too-ta-loo-ta-lay

Just lay me down in my native peat

With a jug of punch at my head and feet

Fill 'em up again, lads