| Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street | 
| A gentle Irishman, mighty odd | 
| He’d a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet | 
| And to rise in the world he carried a hod | 
| You see he’d a sort of the tipp' lin' way | 
| With the love of the liquor, poor Tim was born | 
| And to help him on with his work each day | 
| He’d a drop of the craythur every morn | 
| Whack fol the da, now, dance to your partner | 
| Welt the floor your trotters shake | 
| Wasn’t it the truth I tell you | 
| Lots of fun at Finnegan’s wake | 
| One mornin' Tim was rather full | 
| His head felt heavy, which made him shake | 
| He fell from the ladder and he 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 | 
| 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 tay and cake | 
| Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch | 
| Biddy O’Brien began to cry | 
| «Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see? | 
| Tim Mavourneen why did you die?» | 
| «Arrah hold your gob» said Paddy McGee | 
| Then Maggie O’Connor took up the job | 
| «O Biddy,» says she «you're wrong I’m sure» | 
| Biddy gave her a belt in the gob | 
| And left 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 | 
| Then Mickey Maloney raised his head | 
| When a bucket of whiskey flew at him | 
| It missed and falling on the bed | 
| The liquor scattered over Tim | 
| Tim revives, see how he rises | 
| Timothy rising from the bed | 
| Said «Whirl your whiskey around like blazes | 
| Thundering Jesus, do you think I’m dead?» |