Finnigan's Wake
 Tim Finnigan lived on Walker Street,
 An Irish gentleman mighty odd.
 He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet,
 And to rise in the world, he carried a hod.
But you see, he'd a sort of a tippling way,
With a love of the liquor, poor Tim was born.
 To help a man at his work each day,
He'd a drop of the craythur every morn.
chorus: Whack fol di die do, dance to your partner,
Wouldn't that our trotters shake,
 Wasn't that the truth I tell you,
 Lots of fun at Finnigan's wake.
One morning Tim was feeling full,
 His head felt heavy which make him shake.
He fell from a ladder and broke his skull,
 And they carried him home, his corpse to wake.
Wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet,
Laid him out upon the bed,
With a bottle of porter at his feet,
 And a gallon of whiskey at his head.
His friends assembled at the wake,
And Mrs. Finnigan called for lunch.
First they brought in tea and cake,
Then pipes, tobacco, and whiskey punch.
 Biddy O'Brien began to cry,
 Such a pretty corpse she never did see,
 "Tim Mavourneen, Oh why did you die?"
"Hold your gab!" cried Paddy McGee.
Then Peggy O'Conner took up the job,
 "Biddy," says she, "You're wrong, I'm sure."
But Biddy gave her a belt in the knob,
And left her sprawling on the floor.
 Then the war did soon engage,
Woman to woman and man to man.
 Shillelagh law was all the rage,
And a row and a ruction soon began.
Then Mickey Maloney raised his head,
 When a gallon of whiskey flew at him,
It missed and falling on the bed,
 The liquor scattered over Tim.
 He revives, see how he rises,
Timothy rising from the bed,
Saying, "Scattering your whiskey round like blazes,
 Gentlemen, de'il, do you think I'm dead."