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 small sat on an ivy bunch
And the song he was a jug of punch.

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

If I were sick, and bad
And not able 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 think it at all
To my shoes for a jug of punch.

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

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

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