Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street
gentle Irishman mighty odd
He had a brogue both rich and sweet
An to rise to the world he carried a hod
He had sort of a tipplers way
For the love of the liquor poor tim was born
To help him on his way each day
He had a drop of the craythur every morn

One morning Tim got rather full
His head felt heavy which made him shake
He fell from a ladder and he broke his skull
Oh they carried him home his corpse to wake
Wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet
Laid him out upon the bed
bottle of whiskey at his feet
And a barrel of porter at his head

Whack for the da now dance to your partner
Round the floor your trotters shake
Bend an ear to the [bad word] I tell you
We had lots of fun at Finnegans Wake

His friends assembled at the wake
And widow Finnegan called for lunch
First she brought in tea and cake
Then pipes tobacco whiskey punch
Biddy OBrien began to cry
Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see
Tim auvreem why did you die
Will you hold your gob said Paddy McGee

Then Maggie OConner took up the cry
O Biddy says youre wrong im sure
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
And sent her sprawling on the floor
Then the war did soon enrage
Twas woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
And a row and [bad word] soon began

Mickey Maloney ducked his head
When a bucket of whiskey flew at him
It missed and falling on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim
Timothy risen up he risen
Jumped like a trojan from the bed
Saying will ye walup each girl and boy
Tunderin Jesus do you think Im dead