Tom: Eb major
Verse 1
Eb
There's a lovely drinking song
called A Jug of Punch.
Punch is made here in America,
apparently, with rum or something
like that.
But in Ireland,
it's naturally enough
made with Irish whiskey.
You have a glass and a spoon,
Bb
some sugar, some cloves.
Eb
No, you don't need the cloves.
You don't really need the hot water,
either. but it's a lovely drink anyway
and this is a song
that an old man might sing in the evening
an old man whose whole life
had been sweetened
by the drinking of punch
and he sort of growls it out one
evening
Bb
as the world is slipping out of focus.
Eb
It starts out very quietly and very poetically
and rapidly deteriorates
like a good night of drinking.
A jug of punch
when they're in tune.
Bb
Eb
Anyway, all good people
should join
in the chorus of this song,
anybody who's ever tasted punch.
And now we're going to
do a pleasant evening
in the month of June,
Bb
Eb
as I was sit ting with my glass and spoon,
a small bird sat on an ivy bunch,
D
Eb
and the song he sang
was the jug of punch.
Too -ra -loo -ra -loo,
too -ra -loo -ra -lay,
Bb
Eb
Too -ra -loo -ra -loo, too -ra -loo -ra -lay.
A small bird sat on an ivy bunch,
And the song he sang
was the jug of punch.
What more diversion can a man desire
Bb
Eb
Than to sit him down by a snot or fire
Upon his knee a pretty wench,
Bb
Eb
Aye, and on the table a jug of hunch.
Ab
To -ra -loo -ra -loo, to -ra -loo -ra -lay,
Eb
Bb
Eb
To -ra -loo -ra -loo, to -ra -loo -ra -lay.
Ab
Upon his knee a pretty wench,
Eb
Aye, and on the table a jug of hunch.
Let the doctors come with all their aft,
Bb
They'll make no impression
Ab
And even the cripple forgets his punch,
Eb
When he's snuck outside
Bb
Eb
of a jug of punch.
And too -da -loo -da -loo,
Ab
too -da -loo -da -lay,
Eb
Bb
Too -da -loo -da -loo,
Eb
too -da -loo -da -lay.
Ab
Even the cripple forgets his hunch
Eb
When he's not outside of a jug of punch.
And if I get drunk, oh, well,
the money's beyond,
Bb
And them don't like me,
Eb
they can leave me alone.
I've shown my fiddle hand,
G
Ab
I'll rosin my bow,
G
Eb
Ab
And I'll be wel
Eb
Gm
come wherever I go.
Eb
And toodle -oodle -oo,
Eb
Bb
Eb
Toodle -oodle -oo, toodle -oodle -ay.
I've shown my fiddle hand,
Eb
And I'll be welcome wherever I go.
And when I'm dead, I undid my grave
Bb
Eb
No costly tombstone will I have
Just lay me down in my native peat
Bb
With a jug of punch at my head
Eb
Bb
Toodle -oodle -oo, toodle -oodle -ee
Eb
Bb
Eb
Toodle -oodle -oo, toodle -oodle -ee
Bb
Just lay me down in my native feet
Eb
Bb
Eb
With a jug of horns at
Give it up again lads!
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AfinadorE A D G B E
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