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    Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street,
    A gentle Irishman mighty odd
    He had a brogue both rich and sweet,
    An' to rise in the world he carried a hod
    You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way
    but for the love for the liquor poor Tim was born
    To help him on his way each day,
    he'd a drop of the craythur every morn

    Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner
    round the flure yer trotters shake
    Bend an ear to the truth they tell ye,
    we had 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, and
    they carried him home his corpse to wake
    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

    His friends assembled at the wake,
    and Widow Finnegan called for lunch
    First she brought in tay and cake,
    then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
    Biddy 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 McGee

    Then Maggie O'Connor took up the cry,
    "O Biddy" says she "you're wrong, I'm sure"
    Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
    and sent her sprawling on the floor
    Then the war did soon engage,
    t'was woman to woman and man to man
    Shillelagh law was all the rage
    and a row and a ruction soon began

    Mickey Maloney ducked his head
    when a bucket of whiskey flew at him
    It missed, and falling on the bed,
    the liquor scattered over Tim
    Now the spirits new life gave the corpse, my joy!
    Tim jumped like a Trojan from the bed
    Cryin will ye walup each girl and boy,
    t'underin' Jaysus, do ye think I'm dead?"

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