Tim Finnegan lived on Watling Street

A gentle Irishman mighty odd

Had a love for both the rich and the sweet

And to rise in the world he carried a hod

You see, he'd sort of a tippling way

With the love for the liquor poor Tim was born

To help him on with his work each day

Had a drop of the craythur every morn'



Chorus:

Whack fol the da now dance to your partner

'Round the floor your trotters shake

Bend an ear to the truth I tell ya

Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake



One mornin' Tim got rather full

His head felt heavy which made him shake

Fell from the ladder and broke his skull

They carried him home his corpse to wake

Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet

And laid him out upon the bed

A bottle of whiskey at his feet

And a barrel of porter at his head



Chorus



His friends assembled at the wake

And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch

First she brought in tea and cake

Then pipes, tobacco and brandy punch

Then Biddy O'Brien began to cry,

"Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?

Tim, avoorneen! Why did you die?"

"Ah, fuck you!" said Paddy McGee



Chorus



Then Maggie O'Connor took up the cry,

"O Biddy," she said, "you're wrong, I'm sure"

Biddy gave her a belt in the gob

and sent her sprawling on the floor

Then the war did soon engage

It was woman to woman and man to man

Shillelagh law was all the rage

And a row and a ruction soon began



Chorus x2



Bridge:

Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head

When a bottle of Jameson flew at him

It missed him, landing on the bed

The liquor splattered over Tim

Tim revived, see how he rises

Fat fuck Finnegan rising from the bed

Crying, "will ya walup each girl and boy,

Thunderin' Jaysus, do ya think I'm dead?"



Chorus x2