Tim Finnegan lived in Walting Street,
A gentleman Irishman - mighty odd -
He'd a beautiful brogue, so rich and sweet,
And to rise in the world, he carried A hod.
You' see he'd a sort of a tippling way;
With a love for the liquor poor Tim was born,
And to help him on with his work every day,
He's 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 I told ye?
   Lot's of fun at Finnegan's wake

One morning Tim was rather full;
His head felt heavy, which made him shake,
He fell from the ladder, and broke his skull, 
So they carried him home his corpse to wake.
They rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,
And laid him out upon the bed,
With a bottle of whiskey at his feet,
And a gallon of porter at his head.

His friends assembled at his wake;
And missus Finnegan called for lunch.
First they brought in tay and cake;
Then pipes, tobacco and whiskey-punch,
Then Biddy O'Brien began to cry;
Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see?
Arrah! Tim avourneen, why did you die?
Arrah hould your gob sez Billy Magee.

Then Peggy O'Connor took up the job,
"Arrah! Biddy," says she "Ye're wrong, I'm sure,"
But Biddy then gave her a belt on the gob,
And left here sprawling on the flure.
Each side in war did soon engage,
"Twas woman to woman and man to man,
Shillelah-law was all the rage -
An' a row an' a ruction soon began.

Then Mickey Moloney raised his head
When a bottle of whiskey flew at him.
It missed him, falling on the bed,
The liquor scattered over Tim!
Tim revives!  See how he Rises!
Timothy rising from the bed
Crying whirl your whiskey around like blazes
Glory be to God, do ye think I'm dead.