Finnegan's Wake

Tim 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 the tipp' lin' way With the love of the liquor, poor Tim was born And to help him on with his work each day He'd a drop of the craythur every morn Whack fol the da, now, dance to your partner Welt the floor your trotters shake Wasn't it the truth I tell you Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake One mornin' Tim was rather full His head felt heavy, which made him shake He fell from the 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 gallon of whiskey at his feet And a barrel of porter at his head His friends assembled at the wake And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch First they 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 Mavourneen why did you die?" "Arrah hold your gob" said Paddy McGee Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job "O 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 It was woman to woman and man to man Shillelagh law was all the rage And a row and a ruction soon began Then Mickey Maloney raised his head When a bucket of whiskey flew at him It missed and falling on the bed The liquor scattered over Tim Tim revives, see how he rises Timothy rising from the bed Said "Whirl your whiskey around like blazes Thundering Jesus, do you think I'm dead?"