Tim
Finnegan lived in Watling street
A
gentleman irishman mighty odd
He
had a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet
And
to rise in the world he carried a hod
You
see he had a sort of a tippling way
With
a love for the liquor poor Tim was born
And
to help him on his work every day
He
had a drop of the craythur every morn
Whack
fol-de-dah now dance to your partner
Welt
the floor, your trotters shake
Wasnt
it the truth I told ye?
Lots
of fun at Finnegans wake
One
morning 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 bottle of Whisky at his feet
And
a gallon of porter at his head
His
friends assembled at his wake
And
missus Finnegan called for lunch
First
they brought in tea and cake
The
pipes, tobacco and whisky-punch
Then
Biddy OBrian began to cry
Such
a nice clean corpse did you ever see?
Arrah!
Tim avourneen, why did you die?
Arrah!
Hould your gob sez Billy MaGee
Then
Peggy OConnor took up the job
Arrah!
Biddy, says she, Yere wrong Im sure
But
Biddy then gave her a belt on the gob
And
left her sprawling on the floor
Each
side in war did soon engage
It
was woman to woman and man to man
Shillelah-law
was all the rage
And
a row and a ruction soon began
Then
Mickey Maloney raised his head
When
a bottle of whisky flew at him
It
missed him, falling on the bed
The
liquor scattered over Tim!
Tim
revives! See how he rises!
Timothy
rising from the bed
Crying
whirl your whisky around like blazes
Glory
be to God, do ye think Im dead
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