Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin' 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.

Now Tim had a sort of the tipplin' way

With a love of for the liquor poor Tim was born

And to help him on with his work each day

He'd a "drop of the cray-thur" every morn.



Whack fol the darn O, dance to your partner

Whirl the floor, your trotters shake;

Wasn't it the truth I told you

Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake!



One mornin' Tim felt rather full

His head was heavy which made him shake;

He fell from the ladder and 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,

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?

"O Tim, mavourneen, why did you die?"

Arragh, hold your gob said Paddy McGhee!



Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job

"O Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure"

Biddy she gave her a belt in the gob

And left her sprawlin' on the floor.

And then the war did soon engage

'Twas woman to woman and man to man,

Shillelagh law was all the rage

And a row and a ruction soon began.



Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head

When a noggin of whiskey flew at him,

It missed, and falling on the bed

The liquor scattered over Tim!

The corpse revives! See how he raises!

Timothy rising from the bed,

Says,"Whirl your whiskey around like blazes

Thanum an Dhul! Do you thunk I'm dead?"