The Jug of Punch - Live

There's a lovely drinkin' song
 Called "A Jug of Punch"
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 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!