Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street,
A gentle Irishman -- mighty odd
He'd a beautiful brogue both rich and sweet,
And to rise in the world he carried a hod,
But Tim he'd sort of a tipplin way:
With love for the liquor he was born,
And to help him on with his work each day,
He'd a drop of the craythur every morn'
Whack fol-de-dah
Will ye dance to your partner,
Welt the floor,
Your trotters shake
Wasn't it the truth
I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's wake
One morning Tim got 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 bucket of whiskey at his feet,
And a bottle 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?
Ah Tim mavourneen why did ye die"?
"Arrah hold your gob!"
Said Patty Magee
Then Maggie O'connor took up the job
"Arrah!" Biddy says she "ye're wrong I'm sure",
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
And she left her sprawling on the floor,
Then civil war did soon engage
Twas woman to woman and man to man
Shillelah-law was all the rage,
An a row and a ruction soon began
Then Mickey Maloney raised his head
When a bottle of whiskey flew at him,
It missed him falling on the bed,
The liquor scattered over Tim,
Be gob he revives,
See how he rises,
Finnegan rising from the bed
Says, "Whirl your whiskey 'round like blazes Thanum o'n Dhoul,
Do ye think I'm dead!"