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Bắt đầu làm bài nào

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

()
Whack fol the dah, now with your partner
Around the floor, trotters shake
Isn't it the truth, I tell
Lots of fun at Finnegan's

One morning Tim felt rather
His head felt heavy, which him shake
He fell off his ladder and he his skull
So carried him home, his corpse to wake
They wrapped him up in a nice, sheet
And they him out there upon the bed
a bottle of whiskey at his feet
And a of porter at his head

()

His assembled at the wake
And Mrs Finnegan for lunch
she served them tay and cake
Then pipes, and whiskey punch

O'Brien began to cry:
"Such a nice clean corpse, did you see
Tim avourneen, why did you die?"
"Will ye hould your gob?" said Paddy

()

Then O'Harriton got the job:
"Biddy" she "you're wrong, I'm sure"
Biddy gave her a clapper the gob
And sent her on the floor
T'was the war did soon engage
It was to woman and man to man
law, did all engage
And a row and a ruction began

()

Mickey Maloney ducked his head
When a of whiskey flew at him
It missed, and on the bed
And the whisky splattered poor old Tim
Bedad he revives, now see him
Tim Finnegan and up in the bed
Throwin' the around the place
"T'underin' Jaysus, do ye I'm dead?"