*
FINNIGAN'S WAKE
Tim Finnigan lived on Walker Street
A gentle Irishman, mighty odd
He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod
You see he'd 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 creatur every morn.
Chorus: Whack for the da' now dance to your partner
Round the floor your trotter's shake
Wasn't it the truth I told you
Lot's o' fun at Finnigan's wake.
One morning Tim was rather full
His head felt heavy which made him shake
He fell from the ladder and he broke his skull
So they carried him home his corpse to wake
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
They laid him out upon the bed
With a gallon of whiskey at his feet
And a bottle of porter at his head.
His friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs. Finnigan called for lunch
First they brought in tea and cake,
Then pipe tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddie O'Brien began to cry,
"Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see
Aye Tim, mavourneen, why did ya die?"
"Ah, hold your gob!" says Paddie McGee.
Then Biddie O'Connor took up the job
"Oh, Biddie," says she, "You're wrong I'm sure."
Biddie gave her a belt in the gob
And she left her sprawlin' on the floor
Then the war did soon engage
Twas woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh-law was all the rage
And the row and eruption soon began.
Then Micky Maloney raised his head
When a noggin of whiskey flew at him
It missed him fallin' on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim
Tom revives see how he rises
Timothy risin' from the bed
Sayin' "Whirl your whiskey round like blazes!
Thanum an Diall! Did you think I'm dead?"
*
