| Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street
|
| A gentle Irishman mighty odd
|
| He’d a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet
|
| To rise in the world he carried a hod
|
| You see he’d sort of a tippling way
|
| With love for a liquor poor Tim was born
|
| To help him on with his work every day
|
| He’d a drop of the Craythor every morn'
|
| One morning Tim was rather full
|
| His head felt heavy which made him shake
|
| Fell from the ladder and broke his skull
|
| So they carried him home his corpse to wake
|
| Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
|
| And laid him upon the bed
|
| A bottle of whiskey at his feet
|
| And a gallon of porter at his head
|
| And whack Fol-De-Dah now dance to your partner
|
| Welt the floor, your trotters shake
|
| Wasn’t it the truth I told ya
|
| Lots of fun at Finnegan’s wake
|
| His friends assembled at his wake
|
| And Missus Finnegan called for lunch
|
| First they brought in tay and cake
|
| Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey and punch
|
| Biddy O’Brien began to cry
|
| Such a nice clean corpse did you ever did see
|
| Tim mavourneen, why did you die?
|
| Hold your gob said Paddy McGee
|
| Then Peggy O’Connor took up the job
|
| Biddy she says You’re wrong I’m sure
|
| Biddy then gave her a belt on the gob
|
| And left her sprawling on the floor
|
| Then the war did soon engage
|
| Woman to Woman and Man to Man
|
| Shillelah law was all the rage
|
| And a row and a ruction soon began
|
| Mickey Maloney he raised his head
|
| When a bottle of whiskey flew at him
|
| It missed him falling on the bed
|
| The liquor scattered over Tim
|
| Tim revives see how he rises
|
| Timothy rising from the bed
|
| Whirl your whiskey around like blazes
|
| Thanum an Dhul, do ye think I’m dead |