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Whisky on a Sunday (lyrics)
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Come day, go dayWish in my heart it were SundayDrinking buttermilk thru the weekWhiskey on a Sunday
He sits in the corner of old beggar's bushOn top of an old packing cratehe has three wooden dolls that can dance and can singAnd he croons with a smile on his face
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His tired old hands tug away at the stringsAnd the puppets dance up and downA far better show than you ever would seeIn the fanciest theatre in town
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And sad to relate that old Seth Davy diedIn 1904 The three wooden doll in the dustbin were laid His song will be heard nevermore
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But some stormy night when you're passing that wayAnd the wind's blowing up from the seaYou'll still hear the song of old Seth DavyAs he croons to his dancing dolls three
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