Luyện nghe bài hát The Jug of Punch

Jug Of
'Twas early, early, in the month of
I was sitting my glass and spoon.
A bird sat on an ivy bunch
And the he sang was a jug of punch.

Toor-a-loora-la,
Toor-a-loora-la,
A small sat on an ivy bunch
And the he sang was a jug of punch.

If I were sick, and bad
And were not to go or stand,
I not think it at all amiss
To my shoes for a jug of punch.

Toor-a-loora-la,
Toor-a-loora-la,
I would not it at all amiss
To my shoes for a jug of punch.

What diversion can a man desire
Than to sit him down by a turf fire,
Upon his knee a pretty
And upon his a jug of punch.

Toor-a-loora-la,
Toor-a-loora-la,
his knee a pretty wench
And upon his a jug of punch.

And when I'm dead and in my
No costly tombstone I have,
I'll dig a grave both and deep
With a jug of at my head and feet.