Finnegan’s Wake

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 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 around the floor yer trotters shake
Wasn’t it the truth I told you? 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
They wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet, and laid him out there 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 Mrs Widow Finnegan called for lunch
First she served them tea and cake, then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddy O’Brien began to cry, “Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see,
Tim avourneen, why did you die?”, “Hold your gob!” said Paddy McGee


Then Ginny O’Hara took up the job, “Biddy” says she “you’re wrong, I’m sure”
Biddy gave her a clapper upon 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 did all engage and a row and a ruction soon began


Then Mickey Maloney raised up his head when a bucket of whiskey flew at him
It missed, and landed on the bed, and the whiskey splattered over poor old Tim
Bedad he revives, see how he rise, Tim Finnegan risin’ up in the bed
“Throw no whiskey round the place, thunderin’ heavens, do ye think I’m dead?”

Chorus (x2)