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Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street, |
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a gentle Irishman mighty odd |
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He had a brogue both rich and sweet, |
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an' to rise in the world he carried a hod |
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You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way |
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but the love for the liquor poor Tim was born |
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To help him on his way each day, |
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he'd a drop of the craythur every morn |
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[Chorus:] |
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Whack fol the dah now dance to yer |
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partner around the flure yer trotters shake |
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Wasn't it the truth I told you? |
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Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake |
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One morning Tim got rather full, |
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his head felt heavy which made him shake |
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Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull, |
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and they carried him home his corpse to wake |
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Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet, |
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and laid him out upon the bed |
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A bottle of whiskey at his feet |
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and a barrel of porter at his head |
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[Chorus] |
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His friends assembled at the wake, |
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and Mrs Finnegan called for lunch |
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First she brought in tay and cake, |
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then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch |
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Biddy O'Brien began to cry, |
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"Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see |
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Tim avourneen, why did you die?", |
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"Will ye hould your gob?" said Paddy McGee |
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[Chorus] |
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Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job, |
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"Biddy" says she "you're wrong, I'm sure" |
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Biddy gave her a belt in the |
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gob and left her sprawling on the floor |
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Then the war did soon engage, |
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t'was woman to woman and man to man |
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Shillelagh law was all the rage |
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and a row and a ruction soon began |
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[Chorus] |
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Mickey Maloney ducked his head when |
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a bucket of whiskey flew at him |
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It missed, and falling on the bed, |
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the liquor scattered over Tim |
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Bedad he revives, see how he rises, |
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Timothy rising from the bed |
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Saying "Whittle your whiskey around |
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like blazes, t'underin' Jaysus, do ye think I'm dead?" |
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[Chorus] |
