Tim Finnegan lived on Rankin Street
A gentle Irishman, by God
He had a brogue both rich and sweet
To rise in the world he carried a hod
Now Tim had a sort of a tippler's way
With a love for the liquour poor Tim was born
And to help him on his way each day
He'd a drop of the "creature" every morn.
Whack fol la dar-o dance to your partner
Round the floor your trotters shake
This 'un is the truth, I told ya
Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake
One morning, Tim felt rather full
His head felt heavy, which made him shake
Fell from a ladder and he cracked his skull
They carried him home, his corpse to wake
Laid him out on a nice clean sheet
And laid him out all on the bed
Gallon of whiskey at his feet
And a barrel of porter at his head
His friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs Finnegan called for lunch
First she gave them tea and cake
And pipes, baccy and whisky punch
Biddy Malone began to cry
"Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see
Oh Tim malvourn' why did you die?"
"Well, hold yer gob" said Paddy McGhee
Well, Billy Malone took up the job
Says he "now Biddy, you're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy gave him a belt in the gob
And sent him sprawling on the floor
Civil war did soon engage
'T was woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and a ruction soon began
Then Paddy Malone ducked down his head
As a bottle of whisky flew at him
It missed and landed on the bed
The whisky scattered over Tim
Now Tim revived, see how he rises
Timothy rising from the dead
He said "whirl yer whisky around like blazes,
Hollerin' Jeez, d'ya think I'm dead?"
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