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 tippling way
With love for a liquor poor Tim was born
To help him on with his work every day
He'd a drop of the Craythor every morn'
One morning Tim was rather full
His head felt heavy, which made him shake
Fell from the ladder and broke his skull
So they carried him home, his corpse to wake
Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet
And laided him upon the bed
A bottle of whiskey at his feet
And a gallon of porter at his head
His friends assembled at his wake
And Missus Finnegan called for lunch
First they brought in tea and cake
Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddy O'Brien begged to cry
Tim mavourneen why did you die?
Hold your gob said Paddy MCGee
Then Peggy O'Connor took up the job
Biddy she says you're wrong I'm sure
Biddy then gave her a belt on the gob
And left her sprawling on the floor
Then 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
Mickey Maloney he raised his head
When a bottle of whiskey 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
Whirl your whiskey around like blazes
Tonamondeal, do you think I'm dead?
