WHISKEY ON A SUNDAY
Written by Glyn Hughes
Come day, go day,
Wish in my heart it was Sunday,
Drinking buttermilk all the week,
and whiskey on a Sunday.
He sits in the corner of old beggar's bush,
On top of an old packing crate,
he has three wooden dolls that can dance and can sing,
And he croons with a smile on his face.
His tired old hands tug away at the strings,
And the puppets dance up and down,
A far better show than you ever would see,
In the fanciest theatre in town.
In nineteen o four, old Seth Davy died,
and his singing was heard no more,
His puppets and string they were thrown in the bin,
and his board went to mend a back door.
But on stormy nights, when you're passing that way,
And the wind's blowing up from the sea,
You'll still hear the songs of that old Seth Davy,
As he croons to his dancing dolls three.