Upon the twenty-third of June
As I sat with my glass and spoon
Upon the twenty-third of June
As I sat with my glass and spoon
I heard a thrush, singing in a bush
And the song she sang was the Jug of Punch
Toori-a; fol the diddle li do day What more diversion can a man desire
Than to sit down by an alehouse fire?
What more diversion can a man desire
Than to sit down by an alehouse fire?
Upon his knee a tidy wench
And upon the table a jug of punch
Toori-a; fol the diddle li do day Learned doctors, with all their art
Can not heal a broken heart
Learned doctors, with all their art
Can not heal a broken heart
But even the cripple forgets his hunch
When he's snug beside of a jug of punch
Toori-a; fol the diddle li do day When I’m dead and in my mould
At my head and feet place a flowing bowl
When I am dead and left in my mould
At my head and feet place a flowing bowl
And everyone that passes by
Can have one last drink with I
Toori-a; fol the diddle li do day Upon the twenty-third of June
As I sat weaving at my loom
Upon the twenty-third of June
As I sat weaving at my loom
I heard a thrush, singing in a bush
And the song she sang was the Jug of Punch
Toori-a; fol the diddle li do day | 
