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Lyrics:
Ah Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street, a gentle Irishman mighty odd Well he had a brogue both rich and sweet, an' to rise in the world he carried a hod Ah but Tim had a sort of tipplin way with love of the liquor he was born An`to send him on his way each day, he'd a drop of the craythur every morn
Chorus: Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner around the flure yer trotters shake Isn`t it the truth I told you? Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake
Ah One morning Tim was rather full, his head felt heavy which made him shake He fell from a ladder and he broke his skull, and they carried him home his corpse to wake Well they rolled him up in a nice clean sheet, and laid him out upon the bed A bottle of whiskey at his feet and a barrel of porter at his head
Well his friends assembled at the wake, and Mrs Finnegan called for lunch First she brought in tay and cake, then pipes, tobacco and brandy punch The widow Malone began to cry, 'Such a lovely corpse, did you ever see, Arrah Tim avourneen, why did you die?', 'Will ye hould your gob?' said Paddy McGee
Oh well Mary O'Connor took up the job, 'Biddy' says she 'you're wrong, I'm sure' Oh well Biddy gave her a belt in the gob and left her sprawling on the floor Well civil war did then engage, woman to woman and man to man Shillelagh law was all the rage and a row and a ruction soon began
Oh well Tim Maloney ducked his head when a bootle of whiskey flew at him He ducked and landing on the bed, the whiskey scattered over Tim oh bedad he revives, see how he rises, Tim Finnegan rising in the bed Saying 'Whittle your whiskey around like blazes, t'underin' Jaysus, do ye think I'm dead?'
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