Whiskey On A Sunday

* * *
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 groans with a smile on his face

la-la-la-la
Come day, go day
Wish in me heart it was Sunday
la-la-la-la
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

In nineteen-o-two on a sad day he died
The song it was heard no more
The three dancing dolls in the dustbin were thrown
And the plank went up in the backdoor

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
That he groans to his dancing dolls three