Finnegan’s Wake Marc Gunn

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