Whiskey On A Sunday

Oh, he sits at the corner of Beggar’s Bush
Astride of an old packing case
And the dolls at the end of the plank were dancing
As he crooned with a smile on his face

Da-da-da-da
Come day, go day
Wish in me heart it was Sunday
Da-da-da-da
Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week
And it’s whiskey on a Sunday

His tired old hands from a wooden beam
And the puppets they danced up and down
A far better show than you ever will see
In the fanciest theatre in town

Da-da-da-da
Come day, go day
Wish in me heart it was Sunday
Da-da-da-da
Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week
And it’s whiskey on a Sunday

In nineteen-o-two old Seth Davy died
His song it was heard no more
The three dancing dolls in the dustbin were thrown
And the plank went to mend the backdoor

Da-da-da-da
Come day, go day
Wish in me heart it was Sunday
Da-da-da-da
Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week
And it’s whiskey on a Sunday

On some stormy night if you’re passing that way
When the wind’s blowing up from the sea
You may still hear the song of old Seth Davy
As he croons to his dancing dolls three

Da-da-da-da
Come day, go day
Wish in me heart it was Sunday
Da-da-da-da
Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week
And it’s whiskey on a Sunday
Da-da-da-da
Drinkin’ buttermilk all the week
And it’s whiskey on a Sunday