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Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street,A gentle Irishman mighty oddHe had a brogue both rich and sweet,An' to rise in the world he carried a hodYou see he'd a sort of a tipplers waybut for the love for the liquor poor Tim was bornTo help him on his way each day,he'd a drop of the craythur every mornWhack fol the dah now dance to yer partnerround the flure yer trotters shakeBend an ear to the truth they tell ye,we had lots of fun at Finnegan's WakeOne morning Tim got rather full,his head felt heavy which made him shakeFell from a ladder and he broke his skull, andthey carried him home his corpse to wakeRolled him up in a nice clean sheet,and laid him out upon the bedA bottle of whiskey at his feetand a barrel of porter at his headHis friends assembled at the wake,and Widow Finnegan called for lunchFirst she brought in tay and cake,Letras de cancionesthen pipes, tobacco and whiskey punchBiddy O'Brien began to cry,"Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see,Tim, auvreem! O, why did you die?","Will ye hould your gob?" said Paddy McGeeThen Maggie O'Connor took up the cry,"O Biddy" says she "you're wrong, I'm sure"Biddy gave her a belt in the goband sent her sprawling on the floorThen the war did soon engage,t'was woman to woman and man to manShillelagh law was all the rageand a row and a ruction soon beganMickey Maloney ducked his headwhen a bucket of whiskey flew at himIt missed, and falling on the bed,the liquor scattered over TimNow the spirits new life gave the corpse, my joy!Tim jumped like a Trojan from the bedCryin will ye walup each girl and boy,t'underin' Jaysus, do ye think I'm dead? From Letras Mania