Some songs have a body in them. Some have a betrayal, a hanging, a girl who broke a man's heart in the green fields of somewhere. The Jug of Punch has none of that. The Jug of Punch is about a man, a fireside, and a hot jug of punch — and how completely, perfectly happy he is. That's it. That's the whole song. And I love it for that.
There's no plot to spoil here. A fella sits down of an evening with his drink and decides, out loud, in front of God and everyone, that there is no better thing in this world than what he has right now. A bird in the bush sings away and the singer reckons even the bird is jealous of him. That's the level of contentment we're dealing with. This is a man at peace.
A Bit of History
I'll be honest with you, as I try to be honest about all of these — the exact origins are murky, and anyone who tells you they know precisely who wrote it and when is selling something. The Jug of Punch is an old Irish drinking song that turns up in the broadside and ballad tradition, and versions of it were sung long before anyone thought to write them down properly. It belongs to that big warm family of fireside drinking songs that were passed mouth to mouth across the country for generations.
What we can say is that it was collected and sung widely across Ireland, and it became a session and concert staple in the great trad revival of the twentieth century. The Clancy Brothers and others carried it out to the world. But the song itself is older than any recording, and like a lot of these things it exists in slightly different shapes depending on who you learned it from and which county you learned it in. The melody is a lovely lilting thing — the kind that practically sings itself once you've heard it the once.
It's a cousin, spirit-wise, to a few other contentment-and-drink songs, but it's about as pure an example of the form as you'll find. No moral. No warning. No regret in the morning. Just joy.
Lyrics
One pleasant evening in the month of June, As I was sitting with my glass and spoon, 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, Than to sit him down by an alehouse fire, Upon his knee a pretty wench, And on the table a jug of punch.
Let the doctors come with all their art, They'll make no impression upon my heart, Even a cripple forgets his hunch, When he's snug outside of a jug of punch.
And when I'm dead and in my grave, No costly tombstone will I crave, Just lay me down in my native peat, With a jug of punch at my head and feet.
How to Sing It
This one is a gift to lead because it asks almost nothing of you. The verses are short, the rhymes are easy, and the room catches on fast — by the second verse you'll have people humming the lilt even if they've never heard it before. Take it at a relaxed, swaying pace. Not a march. This is a sitting-down song, an evening song, a leaning-back-in-the-chair song.
Lean into the "Jug of Punch" line at the end of each verse — that's where everyone joins in, so give them a clear runway to land on it. And don't rush. The whole charm of the thing is unhurried contentment, so if you find yourself speeding up, ease off. There's no flea verse climax here, no four claps. The reward is the warmth.
It sits beautifully in a session anywhere you'd want a gentle, smiling number — a fine breather between the rowdier stuff. If you've the room warmed up with The Wild Rover and you want to bring the mood down a notch without killing it dead, this is your song. And the cripple-forgets-his-hunch verse, gentle as it is, sets up nicely for the tender turn of The Parting Glass later on. You can always find the words for it, and for the bog itself, over on the lyrics page.
It's a small song. But some evenings a small song about a hot drink and a quiet fire is exactly the song you need.
Slán go fóill, and may your jug never run dry, BogLord2002