Tim Finnegan lived in Watling street A gentle Irishman, mighty odd He'd be a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet To rise in the world, he carried a hod See, he'd sort of tipplin' way With love for the liquor poor Tim was born To help him on with his work each day He'd a drop of the craythur every morn' Whack fol, de, dah Now, dance to your partner Welt the floor, your trotters shake Wasn't it the truth, they told ye lots of fun At Finnegan's wake One morning Tim got rather full His head felt heavy which made him shake Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull They carried him home, his corpse to wake Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet And laid him out upon the bed A gallon of whiskey at his feet And a bottle of porter at his head Whack, fol, de, dah Now, dance to your partner Welt the floor, your trotters shake Wasn't it the truth, they told ye lots of fun At Finnegan's wake