Finnegan's Wake

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,

See he'd sort of a tipplin way:

With love for the liquor poor tim was born,

To help him on with his work each day,

He'd a drop of the craythin' every morn'

One morning tim was 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 sheat,

And laid him out upon the bed,

A bottle of whiskey at his feet,

And a gallon of porter at his head



Chorus



Whack fol-de-dah

Now dance to your partner,

Welt the floor,

Your trotters shake

Wasn't it the truth

I told ye lots of fun at finnegan's wake



His friends assembled at his wake

And missus finnegan called for lunch

First they brought in tea and cake

Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch

Biddy O'Brien begged to cry,

It's a nice clean corpse did you ever see

Arrah hold your gob

See paddy magee then o'connor took up the job

"arrah!" biddy says she ye're wrong i'm sure,

Biddy then gave her a belt on the gob

And left her sprawling on the floor,

There the war did soon engage

Woman to woman and man to man

Shillelah-law was all the rage,

An a row and a ruction soon began

Mickey Maloney raised his head

When a bottle of whickey 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 whisky around like blazes Thanum o'n Dhoul,

Do ye think i'm dead