Lyrics

Tim Finnigan lived in Walkin' street, agentle Irishman, very odd
He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet, to rise in the world he carried a hod
You see he'd a sort of a tipplin' way, with the love of the liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on his work each day, He'd a drop of the craythur every morn

Chorus
Whack fol the da now dance with your partner
Welt the floor your trotters shake
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lot's of fun at Finnigans wake

One mornin' Tim was very full, His head felt heavy which made him shake
He fell from a 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 gallon of whiskey at his feet, and a barrel of porter at his head

His friends assembled at the wake, And Mrs. Finnigan 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 Mavoureen why did you die, Argh! hold your gob said Paddy McGhee

The Maggei O'Conor took up the job, Oh Biddy, says she, your 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, woman to woman, and man to man
Shelelaigh law was all the rage, and a row and a ruction soon began

Then Mickey Maloney raised his head, when a noggin of whiskey flew at him
It missed and fallin on the bed, the liquor scattered over Tim
Tim revives see how he rises, Timothy risin' from the bed
Said whirl your whiskey 'round like blazes, Thanuman dial do you think I'm dead