Tim Finigan's Wake
Tim Finigan’s Wake.
Tim Finigan lived in Market street;
A Gentleman Irishman—mighty odd;
He’d a beautiful brogue, so rich and sweet,
And by profession he carried a hod.
But you see he’d a sort of a tippling way,
With a love for the liquor, poor Tim was born;
And to help him through his work each day,
He’d a drop of the creatur, every morn.
One morning Tim was rather full,
His head felt heavy, which made him shake;
He fell from the ladder and broke his scull,
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 fourteen candles round his feet,
And a barrel of paratees around his head.
His friends assembled at his wake,
Mrs. Finigan called out for the lunch,
First they laid in tay and cakes,
Then pipes and tobacky and whisky punch.
Miss Biddy O’Brien began to cry.
Such a purty corpse did you ever see,
Arrah! Tim Avourneen, an’ why did you die?
Och, hould your gab, sez Judy Magee.
Then Peggy O’Connor took up the job,
Arrah, Biddy, says she, ye’re wrong I’m shure,
But Judy then gave her a belt on the gob,
That laid her sprawling on the flure.
Each side in war did then engage,
‘Twas woman to woman, and man to man,
Shillelah law was all the rage,
And a rousing ruction soon begar.
Mickey Malvaney raised his head,
When a gallon of whiskey flew at him,
It missed him, and hopping on the bed,
The liquor scatters over Tim.
Bedad, he revives; see how he rouses,
And Timothy, jumping out of bed,
Cries, while he lathered around like blases,—
“Bad luck to your souls; do you think I’m dead.”