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 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!