Whiskey on a Sunday

Come day go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday,
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.

He sits on the corner of old Beggar's Bush,
On top of an old packing crate,
He has three wooden dolls that can dance and can sing,
And he croons with a smile on his face,

Come day go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday,
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.

His tired old hands tug away at the strings
And the puppets they dance up and down
A far better show than you ever will see
In the fanciest theatre in town

Come day go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday,
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.

I'm sad to relate that old Seth Davy died
In nineteen hundred and four
The three wooden dolls in the dustbin were laid
His songs will be heard nevermore,

Come day go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday,
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.

On some stormy night when you're passing that way,
With the winds blowing up from the sea,
You'll still hear the song of old Seth Davy
As he croons to his dancing dolls three.

Come day go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday,
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.