Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street
A gentleman Irishman mighty odd;
Had a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet
To rise in the world he carried the hod.
You see he'd a sort of a tipplin' way
With a love of the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on with his work each day
He'd a "drop of the craythur" every morn.
Whack fol-de-dah, now dance to your partner
Welt the floor, your trotters shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!
One mornin' Tim got rather full
His head felt heavy which made him shake;
Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull
And they carried him home his corpse to wake.
Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
And laid him out upon the bed;
A gallon of whiskey at his feet
A barrel of porter at his head.
His friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch.
First she brought in tea and cake;
Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch.
Biddy O'Brien began to cry,
"Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see?
Tim auvreem, 'o why did you die?"
"Arragh, shut your gob!" said Paddy McGhee!
Maggie O'Connor took up the job
"Ah Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
And left her sprawlin' on the floor.
Then the war did soon engage
Woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and a ruction soon began.
Mickey Maloney raised his head
When a noggin of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and fallin' on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim!
Tim revives! See how he rises!
Timothy risin' from the bed,
Says', "Whirl-your-a-whiskey around like blazes
D'anam don daibhal! Do you think I'm dead?"