The Jug of Punch Twas early, early, in the month of June. I was sitting with my glass and spoon. A small bird sat on an ivy bunch, And the song he sang was a jug of punch. CHORUS Toor-a-loora-la, toor-a-loora-lie Toor-a-loora-la, toor-a-loora-lie (repeat last two lines of verse) 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. CHORUS What more diversion can a man desire, Than to sit him down by a snug turf fire, Upon his knee sat a pretty wench, And upon his table a jug of punch. CHORUS And when I'm dead and in my grave, No costly tombstone will I have. Just lay me down in my native peat, With a jug of punch at my head and feet. CHORUS