Tim Finnegan lived in watling 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 a man with his work each day,
He'd a drop of the craythin' 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 me boy yadda hoy dida ho yada
Arrah hold your gob
Said Patty Megee

Chorus

then o'connor took up the job
"arrah!" 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,
There the war did soon engage
Woman to woman and man to man
Shillelah-law was all the rage,
An a row and a ruction soon began

Chorus

Then Mickey Maloney raised his head
When a bottle of whickey 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