One pleasent evening in the month of June,
As I was sitting with me glass and spoon,
A little bird sat on an ivy bush
And the song he sang it was the Jug of Punch.

What more diversion ca a man desire,
Than to be seated by a snug coal fire,
Upon his kneee a pretty wench
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 at all a miss,
To pledge me shoes for a jug of punch.

The doctor fails with all his art,
To cure an impression upon the heart.
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 me grave,
No costly tombsone will I crave,
Just lay me down in me native heath
With a jug of punch at me head and feet.