| Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street
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| A gentle Irishman, mighty odd
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| He had a brogue both rich and sweet
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| An' to rise in the world he carried a hod
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| You see he’d a sort of a tipplers way
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| But the love for the liquor poor Tim was born
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| And to help him on his way each day
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| He’d a drop of the craythur every morn
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| Whack fol the dah, now dance with your partner
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| Around the floor, your trotters shake
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| Isn’t it the truth, I tell you?
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| Lots of fun at Finnegan’s Wake
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| One morning Tim felt rather full
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| His head felt heavy, which made him shake
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| He fell off his ladder and he broke his skull
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| So they carried him home, his corpse to wake
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| They wrapped him up in a nice, clean sheet
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| And they laid him out there upon the bed
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| With a bottle of whiskey at his feet
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| And a barrel of porter at his head
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| His friends assembled at the wake
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| And Mrs Finnegan called for lunch
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| First she served them tay and cake
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| Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
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| Biddy O’Brien began to cry:
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| «Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see
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| Tim avourneen, why did you die?»
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| «Will ye hould your gob?» |
| said Paddy McGee
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| Ginny O’Harriton, she took the job:
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| «Biddy» says she «you're wrong, I’m sure»
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| Biddy gave her a clapper upon the gob
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| And sent her sprawlin' on the floor
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| T’was then the war did soon engage
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| It was woman to woman and man to man
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| Shillelagh law, did not engage
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| And a row and a ruction soon began
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| Then Mickey Maloney raised up his head
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| And a barrel of whiskey flew at him
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| He slipped, and landed on the bed
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| And the whisky splattered over poor old Tim
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| Bedad he revives, now see him rise
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| Tim Finnegan rise and up in the bed
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| Throwin' the whiskey around the place
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| «T'underin' Jaysus, do ye think I’m dead?» |