Finnegan's Wake

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!"