Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street
A gentleman Irish, mighty odd
He had a brogue both rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod
But Tim had a sort of a tippling way
With the love of the liquor he was born
And to send him on his way each day
He'd a drop of the cratur every morn
Whack fol de ah will you dance to your partner
Round the floor your trotters shake
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake
One morning Tim was rather full
His head felt heavy which made him shake
He fell off the ladder and he broke his skull
And they carried him home his corpse to wake
Well they wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet
And laid him out upon the bed
With a bottle of whisky at his feet
And a barrel of porter at his head
Well his friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch
Well first she brought them tea and cake
Then pipes, tobacco and brandy punch
Then the widow Malone began to cry
"Such a nice clean corpse did yiz ever see
Yerrah Tim avourneen why did you die"
"Will you hold your gob" said Biddy McGee
Then Mary Murphy took up the job
"Arrah Biddy" says she "you're wrong I'm sure"
Well Biddy fetched her a belt in the gob
And left her sprawling on the floor
Well civil war did then engage
Woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and a ructions soon began
Well Jim Maloney ducked his head
When the bottle of whisky flew at him
It missed and landing on the bed
The whisky scattered over Tim
Oh the corpse revives, see how he rises
Tim Finnegan rising in the bed
Singing twirl your whisky around like blazes
Be the thunderin' Jaysus do you think I'm dead
