JUG OF PUNCH

As I was sitting with me jug and spoon

One fine morning in the month of June

A birdie sang on an ivy bunch

And the song he sang was the jug of punch

What more diversions could a man desire?

Than to court a girl by a neat peat fire

A Kerry pippin to crack and crunch

Aye and on the table a jug of punch

The learned doctors with all their arts

Cannot cure the ills all of the heart

Even the cripple forgets his hunch

When hes save out side of a jug of punch

And when Im dead and in my grave

No costly tombstone will I crave?

Just lay me down in me native peat

With a jug of punch at me head and feet