Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street; a gentleman - Irish, mighty odd
He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet; and to rise in the world he carried a hod
Now Tim had a sort of a tipplin' way; with the love of the liqueur poor Tim was born
And to help him on with his way each day he'd a drop of the craythur every morn
Chorus:
Wack fol the dol now dance to yer partner, welt the floor, your trotters shake
Wasn't it the truth that I told ye: lots o' fun at Finnegan's wake
One mornin' Tim was rather full. His head felt heavy which made him shake
He fell off the ladder and 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 bottle of whiskey at his feet and a gallon of porter at his head
His friends a**embled at the wake, and the widow Finnegan called for lunch
First she brought in tay and cakes, then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddy O'Brien began to cry: Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see
Tim, Mavourneen, why did ye die? Shut yer gob said Paddy McGhee
Then Maggie O'Connor took up the job: O Biddy, says she, you're wrong I'm sure
Then Biddy fetched her a belt in the gob and left her sprawlin' on the floor
Civil war did then engage; ‘twas woman to woman and man to man
Shelelaigh law was all the rage and a row and a ruction soon began
Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head as a bottle of whiskey flew at him
It missed, and landing on the bed, the whiskey scattered over Tim
Tim revived, bedad he arises; Timothy risin' from the bed
Sayin': Whirl yer whiskey around like blazes; thunder and Jesus, do ye think I'm dead