WHISKEY ON A SUNDAY
COME DAY, GO DAY

 

He sits in the corner of old beggar's bush
On the 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

chorus:
Come day, go day
Wish in me heart it were Sunday
Drinking buttermilk thru all the week
But 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 would see
In the fanciest theatre in town

And sad to relate that old Seth Davy died
In the year of 1904
The three wooden dolls in the dustbin were laid
His song will be heard nevermore

But some stormy night when you're passing that way
And 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

Note: Writen by Glyn Hughes