 | The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves |  |
THE JUG OF PUNCH
As I was sitting with my glass and spoon
One pleasant evening in the month of June,
A thrush sang out of an Ivy bunch
And the tune he trolled was the Jug of Punch.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
And the tune he trolled was the Jug of Punch.
One pleasant evening in the month of June,
A thrush sang out of an Ivy bunch
And the tune he trolled was the Jug of Punch.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
And the tune he trolled was the Jug of Punch.
59
What more divarsion might a man require
Than coorting a lass o'er a nate turf fire,
With a Kerry pippin to cut and crunch,
And on the table a Jug of Punch.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
And on the table a Jug of Punch.
Than coorting a lass o'er a nate turf fire,
With a Kerry pippin to cut and crunch,
And on the table a Jug of Punch.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
And on the table a Jug of Punch.
The doctor fails with all his art
To cure an impression upon the heart;
But even the cripple forgets his hunch,
When he's snug outside of a Jug of Punch.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
When he's snug outside of a Jug of Punch.
To cure an impression upon the heart;
But even the cripple forgets his hunch,
When he's snug outside of a Jug of Punch.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
When he's snug outside of a Jug of Punch.
Let the mortial Gods drink their nectar wine,
And the quality sip their claret fine,
But I'd give you all their grapes in a bunch
For one jolly pull at a Jug of Punch.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
Oh, I'd give them all for a Jug of Punch.
And the quality sip their claret fine,
But I'd give you all their grapes in a bunch
For one jolly pull at a Jug of Punch.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
Oh, I'd give them all for a Jug of Punch.
And when I'm dead and in my grave,
No costly tombstone will I crave,
But a quiet stretch in my native peat
With a Jug of Punch at my head and feet.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
Oh, more power to your elbow, my Jug of Punch!
No costly tombstone will I crave,
But a quiet stretch in my native peat
With a Jug of Punch at my head and feet.
Tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo, tooralloo!
A Jug of Punch, a Jug of Punch,
Oh, more power to your elbow, my Jug of Punch!
| The Irish Poems of Alfred Perceval Graves | |