Whiskey On a Sunday

Come day, go day
Wish in my heart it were Sunday
Drinking buttermilk thru the week
Whiskey on a Sunday
He sits in 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 my heart it were Sunday
Drinking buttermilk thru the week
Whiskey on a Sunday
His tired old hands tug away at the strings
And the puppets dance up and down
A far better show than you ever would see
In the fanciest theatre in town
Come day, go day
Wish in my heart it were Sunday
Drinking buttermilk thru the week
Whiskey on a Sunday
And sad to relate that old Seth Davy died in 1904
The three wooden doll in the dustbin were laid
His song will be heard nevermore
Come day, go day
Wish in my heart it were Sunday
Drinking buttermilk thru the week
Whiskey on a Sunday
But some stormy night when you're passing that way
And the wind's 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 my heart it were Sunday
Drinking buttermilk thru the week
Whiskey on a Sunday