Download

Tim Finnegan lived in Walken' Street
A gentle Irishman mighty odd;
He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried the hod.
Tim had a sort of a tipplin' way
With a love of the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on with his work each day
Had a drop of the cratur every morn.

Whack fol the da now dance to your partner
Welt the floor wi' your trotter's shake;
Wasn't it the truth I told you?
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!

One morning Tim felt rather full
His head felt heavy which made him shake;
He fell from a ladder and he broke his skull
So they carried him home his corpse to wake.
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
They 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 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 now Tim mavournin, why did you die?"
"Will ye haud your gob!" said Paddy McGhee!

Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job
"Ah Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
That left her sprawlin' on the floor.
Then the war did soon enrage
Twas woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and a ruction soon began.

Mickey Maloney lowered his head
When a bottle of whisky flew at him,
It missed, and fallin' on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim
Tim revives! See how he rises!
Timothy risin' from the bed,
Sayin', "Whirl your whisky around like blazes
Thunderin' Jesus! Do you think I'm dead?"