Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street, A gentle Irishman mighty odd He had a brogue both rich and sweet, An' to rise in the world he carried a hod You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way But for the love for the liquor poor Tim was born To help him on his way each day, He'd a drop of the craythur every morn
Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner Round the flure yer trotters shake Bend an ear to the truth they tell ye, We had lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake
One morning Tim got rather full, His head felt heavy which made him shake Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull, and They carried him home his corpse to wake Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet, And laid him out upon the bed A bottle of whiskey at his feet And a barrel of porter at his head
His friends assembled at the wake, And Widow 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, Tim, auvreem! O, why did you die?", "Will ye hould your gob?" said Paddy McGee
Then Maggie O'Connor took up the cry, "O Biddy" says she "you're wrong, I'm sure" Biddy gave her a belt in the gob And sent her sprawling on the floor Then the war did soon engage, T'was 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 bucket of whiskey flew at him It missed, and falling on the bed, The liquor scattered over Tim Now the spirits new life gave the corpse, my joy! Tim jumped like a Trojan from the bed Cryin will ye walup each girl and boy, T'underin' Jaysus, do ye think I'm dead?"