Tradycyjne - Jug of Punch (wersja II)

Oh 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 it sang was the Jug of Punch.
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo,
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo.
A small bird sat on an ivy bush,
And the song it sang was the Jug of Punch.

What more diversion can a man desire,
Than to be seated by a neat turf fire,
A Kerry pippin to crack and crunch,
Aye and on the table a jug of punch
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo,
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo.
A Kerry pippin to crack and crunch,
Aye and on the table a jug of punch

If I were sick and very bad,
And was not able to go or stand,
I would not think it all amiss,
To pledge my shoes for a jug of punch.
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo,
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo.
I would not think it all amiss,
To pledge my shoes for a jug of punch.

What more diversion can a man desire
Than to sit him down by a snug coal fire
Upon his knee a pretty wench
And upon the table a jug of punch.
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo,
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo.
Upon his knee a pretty wench
And upon the table a jug of punch.

The doctor fails with all his art,
To cure an impression on the heart.
But if life was gone, within an inch,
What would bring it back but a jug of punch.
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo,
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo.
But if life was gone, within an inch,
What would bring it back but a jug of punch.

But when I'm dead and in my grave,
No costly tombstone will I crave,
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 loo,
Too-ra loo-ra loo, too-ra loo-ra loo.
Just lay me down in my native peat,
With a jug of punch at my head and feet.