Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street
A gentleman Irish, mighty odd;
He'd a beautiful tongue so rich and sweet
And to rise in the world he carried a hod.
Now Tim had a sort o' the tipplin' way
With a love of the liquor poor Tim was born
And to help him on with his work each day
He'd a drop of the craythur ev'ry morn.
ChorusOne mornin' Tim was rather full
His head felt heavy which made him shake,
He fell from the ladder and broke his skull
And they carried him home his corpse to wake.
They wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet
And laid him out across 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 Finnegan called for lunch,
First they 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?
"Arrah, Tim, mavourneen, why did you die?"
"Ah, hold your gab" said Paddy McGee!
Then Biddy O'Connor took up the job
"O Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
And left her sprawlin' on the floor.
And then a mighty war did rage
'Twas woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelagh law did all engage
And the row and the ruction soon began.
Then Mickey Maloney ducked his head
When a naggin of whiskey flew at him,
It missed, and fallin' on the bed
The liquor scattered over Tim.
Bedad he revives! See how he rises!
Timothy rising from the bed,
Says,"Whirl your whiskey around like blazes
Thanam o'n Dhoul! D'ye think I'm dead?"