Formerly in the Irish Packet
Tim Finnegan lived in Walker 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
Tim had a sort of a tipplin’ 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 craythür every morn’
Whack fol the da, now, dance to your partner
’Round the floor your trotters shake
Wasn't it the truth I tell you
Lots 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 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 tea and cake
Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddy O’Brien began to cry
“Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?
Tim, mavournin, why did you die?”
“Ah, 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
’Twas 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 gallon of whiskey flew at him
It missed, and falling on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim!
Tim revives, look how he rises
Timothy rising from the bed
“Whirl your whiskey ‘round like blazes,
Thundering Christ, d’you think I’m dead?”