Finnegan's Wake

Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street
 A gentle Irishman, mighty odd
 He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet
 And to rise in the world he carried a hod
 You see he'd a sort of the tipp' lin' way
 With the love of the liquor, poor Tim was born
 And to help him on with his work each day
 He'd a drop of the craythur every morn
 Whack fol the da, now, dance to your partner
 Welt the floor your trotters shake
 Wasn't it the truth I tell you
 Lots of fun at Finnegan's wake
 One mornin' Tim was rather full
 His head felt heavy, which made him shake
 He fell from the ladder and he broke his skull
 And 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 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 they brought in tay and cake
 Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
 Biddy O'Brien began to cry
 "Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?
 Tim Mavourneen why did you die?"
 "Arrah hold your gob" said Paddy McGee
 Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job
 "O Biddy, " says she "you're wrong I'm sure"
 Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
 And left her sprawling on the floor
 Then the war did soon engage
 It was woman to woman and man to man
 Shillelagh law was all the rage
 And a row and a ruction soon began
 Then Mickey Maloney raised his head
 When a bucket of whiskey flew at him
 It missed and falling on the bed
 The liquor scattered over Tim
 Tim revives, see how he rises
 Timothy rising from the bed
 Said "Whirl your whiskey around like blazes
 Thundering Jesus, do you think I'm dead?"