Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street,
A gentleman Irishman -- mighty odd --
He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet,
To rise in the world he carried a hod
See he'd a sort of a tipplin' way,
With a love for the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on with his work each day
He'd a drop of the crater every morn!

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 whiskey at his feet,
And a gallon of porter at his head!

His friends assembled at the wake,
And Mrs Finnegan called for lunch.
First they brought in tea and cakes,
Then pipes, tobacco, and whiskey punch.
The Biddy O'Brien began to cry,
"Such a nice, clean corpse did you ever see?
Arrah! Tim avourneen, why did you die?"
"Arrah hold your gob!" says Billy Magee

The Peggy O'Connor took up the job,
"Arrah! Biddy", says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure."
But Biddy then gave her a belt in the gob,
That left her sprawling on the floor!
Each side in war did soon engage:
'Twas 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 whiskey flew at him.
It missed him, falling on the bed,
The whiskey scattered over Tim!
Tim revives! See how he rises!
Timothy rising from the bed!
Crying, "Whirl your whiskey around like blazes!
Glory to god, do you think I'm dead?!"

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