Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street a gental Irishman…mighty Оdd
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He’d a beautiful brogue, so rich and sweet and to rise
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in the world he carried a Hod
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You see he’d a sort of a tippling way with the love
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for the liquor poor Tim was born
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And to help him on with his work each day he’d a drop
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of the craythur every morn’.
Chorus:
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And Whack-fold-de-dah now dance to your partner
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Welt the floor, till you trotter & shake
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Wasn’t it the truth I told ye?
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Lots of fun a Finnegan’s wake
Оnе mornin Tim was rather full His head felt heavy,
which made him shake,
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull
so 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 whisky at his feet and a bottle
of porter at his head
His friends assembled at the wake; and missus Finnegan
called for lunch
First they brought in tay and cake; then pipes,
tobacco & whisky punch
Biddy О’Brian began to cry such a nice clean corpse
did you ever see
Tim avourneen, why did you die? Arrah hold your gob
sez Patty Magee
Then Maggie О’Connor took up the job Arrah! Biddy,”
says she, your worng I’m sure
But Biddy then gave her a belt on the gob
and left her sprawlin on the flure
Then the war did soon engage, woman to woman & man to man
Shillelah-law was all the rage An’ a row an’
a ruction soon began
Then Mickey Moloney raised his head when a noggon
of whiskey flew at him
It missed him fallin on the bed The liquor scattered over Tim!
Tim revives see how he rises Timothy Rising from the bed
Said whirl yer whiskey around like blazes Todamon deal
do ye think I’m Dead
