Finnegan's Wake

Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street, A gentle Irishman - Mighty Odd - He'd a beautiful brogue So rich and sweet, to rise in the world He carried a hod, You see He'd sort of a Trippling way: with love for a liquor Poor Tim was born, to help him on with His work each day, He'd a drop of the Craythor every morn'

One morning Tim was rather full, his head felt Heavy, which made him shake, fell from the Ladder and broke his skull, so they carried Him home, his corpse to wake, rolled Him up in a nice clean sheet, and laided Him upon the bed, A bottle of Whiskey At his feet, and a gallon of Porter At his head

Chorus: And whack Fol-De-Dah now dance to your Partner, welt the floor, your trotters shake Wasn't it the truth I told Ye Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake

His friends assembled at his wake And Missus Finnegan called for lunch First they brought in tea and cake Then pipes, tobacco and Whiskey Punch Biddy OBrien begged to cry, such a Nice clean corpse did you see Arrah hold your gob see Paddy Magee

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