Finnegan lived in Walkin street,
A gentleman Irish, mighty odd.
He had a brogue both rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod.
You see he'd a sort of a tipplin' way
With a love for the liquor he was born.
And to help him on his way each day,
He'd a drop of the craythur ev'ry morn.
Whack fol' the dah, now, dance to your partner.
Wipe the floor, your trotters shake.
Isn't it the truth I told ya?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake.
morning Tim was rather full;
His head felt heavy, which made him shake.
He fell from a ladder and he broke his skull
And 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 bottle of whiskey at his feet
And a barrel of porter at his head.
friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch.
First she 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 yer gob!" says Paddy McGee.
Maggie O'Connor took up the job.
"Oh Biddy," says she, "you're wrong, I'm sure."
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
And left her sprawling on 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.
Mickey Maloney ducked his head
When a noggin of whiskey flew at him.
It missed, and falling on the bed
The whiskey scattered over Tim.
Tim revives, see how he rises!
Timothy risin' from the bed!
Says' "Whirl your whiskey 'round like blazes,"
"Thanum an Dhul! Do ye think I'm dead?"