Being on the twenty-third of June   Oh as I sat weaving all at my loom   Being on the twenty-third of June   Oh as I sat weaving all at my loom   I heard a thrush singing on yon bush   And the song she sang was the jug of punch      What more pleasure can a boy desire   Than sitting down, oh beside the fire   What more pleasure can a boy desire   Than sitting down, oh beside the fire   And in his hand, oh a jug of punch   And on his knee a tidy wench      When I am dead and left in my mold   At my head and feet place a flowing bowl   When I am dead and left in my mold   At my head and feet place a flowing bowl   And every young man that passes by   He can have a drink and remember I      Being on the twenty-third of June   Oh as I sat weaving all at my loom   Being on the twenty-third of June   Oh as I sat weaving all at my loom   I heard a thrush singing on yon bush   And the song she sang was the jug of punch