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Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street, a gentle Irishman, mighty odd.
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He had a brogue both rich and sweet, and to rise in the world he carried a hod.
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You see he'd a sort of a tipplin' way; for the love of the liquor poor Tim was born,
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And too help him on his way each day, he'd a 'drop of the craythur' every morn.
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Whack fol the dah, now dance to yer partner. Round the floor yer trotters shake.
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Wasn't it the truth I told you? Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake!
One mornin' Tim was rather full; his head felt heavy, which made him shake;
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull, so they carried him home, his corpse to wake.
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet and laid him out upon the bed
With a gallon of whiskey at his feet and a barrel of porter at his head.
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His friends assembled at the wake and Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch,
First they brought in tay and cake, then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch.
Biddy O'Brien began to cry, "Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?
“Arragh, Tim, mavourneen, why did you die?" “Arragh, hold your gob!â€� said Paddy McGhee!
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Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job, "O Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy she gave her a belt in the gob and left her sprawlin' on the floor.
And then the war did soon engage; 'twas woman to woman and man to man.
Shillelagh law was all the rage and a row and a ruction soon began.
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Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head when a noggin of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and falling on the bed, the liquor scattered over Tim!
Tim revives! See how he raises! Timothy rising from the bed
Says,"Whirl your whiskey around like blazes! Thanum an Dhul! Do you thunk I'm dead?"
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