Tim Finnegan lived in Watling St., a gentleman Irish mighty odd,
He had a brogue both rich and sweet, and to rise in the world he carried a hod.
Tim had a sort of a tippler's way, with a love for the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on his work each day, he'd a drop of the craytur every morn.
Whack fol-de-da now, dance to your partners, welt the floor, yer trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
One morning Tim was rather full, his head felt heavy which made him shake,
Fell off a 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 laid him out upon the bed,
With a barrel of whiskey at his feet and a bucket of porter at his head.
Whack fol-de-da now, dance to your partners, welt the floor, yer trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
The guests a**embled at the wake, when Mrs. Finnegan called for Lunch,
First she brought them tea and cake, pipes, tobacco, and brandy punch.
Then the Widow Malone began to cry, "Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?
"Tim mavourneen, why did ye die?" "Hould yer gob." said Molly Magee.
Whack fol-de-da now, dance to your partners, welt the floor, yer trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
Then Molly Malone takes up the job; "Ah Biddy" says she, "you're wrong I'm sure."
Biddy fetched her a belt in the gob that left her sprawling on the floor.
Civil war did then engage, woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelagh law was all the rage and a row and a ruction soon began.
Whack fol-de-da now, dance to your partners, welt the floor, yer trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
Then Mickey Murphy ducked his head as a bottle of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and landing on the bed, the liquor scattered over Tim.
Bedad, he revives, see how he rises; Timothy risin' in the bed,
Saying, "Whirl yer whiskey round like blazes,
Be the thunderin' Jaysus d'ye think I'm dead!"
He had a brogue both rich and sweet, and to rise in the world he carried a hod.
Tim had a sort of a tippler's way, with a love for the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on his work each day, he'd a drop of the craytur every morn.
Whack fol-de-da now, dance to your partners, welt the floor, yer trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
One morning Tim was rather full, his head felt heavy which made him shake,
Fell off a 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 laid him out upon the bed,
With a barrel of whiskey at his feet and a bucket of porter at his head.
Whack fol-de-da now, dance to your partners, welt the floor, yer trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
The guests a**embled at the wake, when Mrs. Finnegan called for Lunch,
First she brought them tea and cake, pipes, tobacco, and brandy punch.
Then the Widow Malone began to cry, "Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?
"Tim mavourneen, why did ye die?" "Hould yer gob." said Molly Magee.
Whack fol-de-da now, dance to your partners, welt the floor, yer trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
Then Molly Malone takes up the job; "Ah Biddy" says she, "you're wrong I'm sure."
Biddy fetched her a belt in the gob that left her sprawling on the floor.
Civil war did then engage, woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelagh law was all the rage and a row and a ruction soon began.
Whack fol-de-da now, dance to your partners, welt the floor, yer trotters shake,
Wasn't it the truth I told ye, lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.
Then Mickey Murphy ducked his head as a bottle of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and landing on the bed, the liquor scattered over Tim.
Bedad, he revives, see how he rises; Timothy risin' in the bed,
Saying, "Whirl yer whiskey round like blazes,
Be the thunderin' Jaysus d'ye think I'm dead!"