When I grew up in the sixties, folksinging was everywhere. I walked around town with my second-hand Spanish guitar slung across my back by an embroidered shoulder strap. Like other folkies, I was ready to sit down anywhere to sing and play.
The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem were very popular and I learned their songs from a little green book I still have somewhere downstairs.
One favourite was A Jug of Punch.
It was on the twenty-third 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 a jug of punch...
In my imaginings, there was no whiskey involved. The jug of punch was made with ginger ale and fruit juice, with maybe some pineapple and orange slices, and a few strawberries for garnish.
It made a lovely picture. Ice cubes clinked in the tasty liquid, and the outside of the chubby glass pitcher was damp with condensation.
Why did the singer want a spoon?
To eat the fruit from the bottom of the glass, of course.