Tim Finnegan's Wake

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
 Wasn't it the truth I told ye?
 Lot's of fun at Finnegan's 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 O'Brian 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 O'Connor took up the job
 Arrah! Biddy, says she, Ye're wrong I'm 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 I'm dead