Words and Music by : Traditional
Tim Finnegan lived in Walker Street
A gentle Irishman, mighty odd.
He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet,
And to rise in the world he carried a hod.
For you see he'd a sort of a tippling way,
With a love of the liquor poor Tim was born.
And to help him on with his work each day,
He'd a drop of the creature every morn.
Whack for the dol, now dance to your partner,
Welt the floor ye trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told you,
Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
One morning Tim felt rather pale,
His head felt heavy, which made him shake.
He fell from a ladder and broke his skull,
So they carried him home his corpse to wake.
They laid him out in a nice clean sheet,
And laid him out upon the bed.
With a barrel of whisky at his feet,
And a gallon of porter at his head.
Tim's 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.
Ah Tim, mavourneen, why did you die?"
"Ah, shut your gab" said Paddy Magee.
Then Maggy O'Connor took up the job,
"Oh Biddy," she said "you're wrong I'm sure."
Biddy gave her a belt in the gab,
And sent her sprawling across the floor.
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.
The Mickey Maloney ducked his head,
When a noggin of whiskey flew at him,
It missed and falling on the bed,
The liquor scattered all over Tim.
Bedad he revives! See how he rises!
Timothy rising from the dead,
Said "whirl your whiskey around like blazes,
Thanum an dial, do you think I'm dead?"
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