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Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street a gentle Irishman mighty odd.
He had a brogue both rich and sweet and to rise in the world he carried a hod.
You see he'd a sort of a tipplin' way; for the love of the liquor poor Tim was born
And too 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 floor yer trotters shake.
Wasn't it the truth I told you? Lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake!
One mornin' 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 gallon of whiskey at his feet and a barrel of porter at his head.
chorus
His friends assembled at the wake and Mrs. Finnegan called for lunch
First they 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?
?Arragh Tim mavourneen why did you die?" ?Arragh hold your gob!â?
(supprime les barrés)