Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin' Street,
A gentleman Irish, mighty odd,
had a tongue both rich and sweet,
And to rise in the world he carried a hod.
Now Tim had a sort of the tipplin'
With a love of the whiskey he was born,
And to help him on with his work each day,
He'd a drop of the cray-tur
Whack fol de da now, dance to your partner,
Round the floor, your trotters shake,
it the truth I told you,
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake.
One mornin' Tim was feelin' full,
His head was heavy
which made him shake,
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull,
So 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,
And a barrel
of porter at his head.
His friends assembled at the wake,
And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch,
First they brought
in tea and cakes,
Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch.
Biddy O'Brien began to cry,
Such a nice clean corpse,
did you ever see,
O' Tim, Avourneen, why did you die,
Ah hold your mouth said Paddy McGhee.
Then Maggie O'Connor
took up the moan,
O Biddy says she, You're wrong, I'm sure,
Biddy she gave her a belt in the gob,
And left her
sprawling on the floor.
Then a mighty war began to rage,
Tween woman and woman and man to man,
all did engage,
And a row and a ruction soon began.
Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head,
When a noggin of
whiskey flew at him,
It missed and fell upon the bed,
The whisky spilled all over Tim.
Bedad he revives and
see how he rises,
Timothy rises from the bed,
Saying fling your whiskey around like blazes,
Thunderin hell Do
you think I'm dead.