Tim Finnegan lived in Watlin Street
A gentleman, Irish, mighty odd
He had a brogue so rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod
Well, Tim had a bit of a tipplin’ way
With a love for the liquor he was born
And to send him on his way each day
He’d a drop o’ the cratur every morn’

Whack fol the da now dance to your partners
Welt the floor, your trotters shake
Lend an ear to the truth I’ve told you
Lots of fun at Finnegan’s wake

One morning Tim felt rather full
His head felt heavy and it made him shake
He fell off the ladder and he broke his skull
And they carried him home his corpse to wake
They wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet
And they laid him out upon the bed
With a bucket of whiskey at his feet
And a barrel of porter at his head

Chorus

Tim’s friends assembled at the wake
And the widow Finnegan called for lunch
First they brought in tae and cake
Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Then the widow Mallone began to cry
"Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see
Ah, Tim mo vourneen why did you die "
"Arah hold your gob » said Biddy McGee

Chorus

Old Mary Murphy was on the job
" Ah Biddy " says she, " your wrong I’m sure "
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
And left her sprawling on the floor
Civil war did then engage
T’was woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and a ruction soon began

Chorus

Then Mickey Molloney ducked his head
When a gallon of whiskey flew at him
It missed and landing on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim
Tim revives, see how he rises
Finnegan rising from the bed
Sayin’ " Whirl your whiskey around like blazes
Thanum an Dhia, do you think I’m dead ! "

Chorus