Wish in me heart it were Sunday

Drinking buttermilk through the week

Whiskey on a Sunday



He sits in the corner of old beggar's bush

On top of an old packing crate

He has three wooden dolls 

That can dance and can sing

And he croons with a smile on his face



Come day, go day

Wish in me heart it were Sunday

Drinking buttermilk through the week

Whiskey on a Sunday



His tired old hands tug away at the strings

And the puppets dance up and down

A far better show than you ever would see

In the fanciest theatre in town



Come day, go day

Wish in me heart it were Sunday

Drinking buttermilk through the week

Whiskey on a Sunday



And sad to relate that old Seth Davy died in 1904

The three wooden dolls in the dustbin were laid

His song will be heard nevermore



Come day, go day

Wish in me heart it were Sunday

Drinking buttermilk through the week

Whiskey on a Sunday



But some stormy night when you're passing that way

And the wind's blowing up from the sea

You'll still hear the song of old Seth Davy

As he croons to his dancing dolls three



Come day, go day

Wish in me heart it were Sunday

Drinking buttermilk through the week

Whiskey on a Sunday



Come day, go day

Wish in me heart it were Sunday

Drinking buttermilk through the week

Whiskey on a Sunday