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