'Twas early, early in the month of June.
I was sitting with my glass and spoon.
A small bird sat on a ivy branch
and the song he sang was a jug of punch.
Chorus:
Toor-a-loora-la, toor-a-loora-lie
Toor-a-loora-la, toor-a-loora-lie
Toor-a-loora-la, toor-a loora-lie
Toor-a-loora-la, toor-a loora-lie
If I were sick, and very bad
And were not able to go or stand
I would not think it all amiss
to pledge my shoes for a jug of punch
Chorus:
What more diversion can a man desire
Than to sit him down by a snug turf fire
Upon his knee a pretty wench
And upon his table a jug of punch
Chorus:
And when I'm dead and in my grave
No costly tombstone will I have
I'll dig a grave both wide and deep
With a jug of punch at my head and feet.
Chorus
Toor-aloora-la, toor-aloora-lie
Toor-aloora-la, toor-aloora-lie
Toor-aloora-la, toor-aloora-lie
Toor-aloora-la, tooor-aloora-lie