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Lyric provided by www.seekalyric.com |
Tim Finnegan lived in walken street, A gentle irishman -- mighty odd He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet, To rise in the world he carried a hod, See he'd sort of a tipplin way: With love for the liquor poor tim was born, To help him on with his work each day, He'd a drop of the craythur every morn' Chorus: Whack fol-de-dah Now dance to your partner, Welt the floor, Your trotters shake Wasn't it the truth They told ye lots of fun at finnegan's wake One morning Tim got rather full, His head felt heavy, Which made him shake, Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull, They carried him home, his corpse to wake, Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet, And laid him out upon the bed, A gallon of whiskey at his feet, And a bottle of porter at his head Chorus His friends assembled at the wake And misses Finnegan called for lunch First she 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 "Arrah hold your gob", said Paddy Mcgee. Chorus then Maggie O'Connor took up the job "ah!" Biddy says she ye're wrong i'm sure, Biddy then gave her a belt on the gob And left her sprawling on the floor, Then the war did soon engage Woman to woman and man to man Shillelagh-law was all the rage, An a row and a ruction soon began Chorus Then Mickey Maloney raised his head When a nuggin of whiskey 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. Then whirl your whisky around like blazes "Thanum o'n Dhoul, Do ye think i'm dead!" |