I found this when searching for the term "billy-go-fister" for a discussion in another thread. It seems to fit the genre, but I find the story rather confusing.

From Irish Come-All-Ye's by Manus O'Conor (New York: L. Lipkind, 1901) page 42:


MISTER FINAGAN.

I'm a dacent laboring youth,
I wur born in the town of Dunshocaklin,
I'm a widower now in my youth
Since I buried swate Molly McLaughlin;
I wur married but once in my life,
Shure, I'll never commit such a sin again,
For I found out when she wur my wife,
She wur fond of one Barney McFinagan.

CHORUS. Whack fil lil lan ta ra le,
Whack fil lil lan tar a laddy de,
Whack fil lil lan ta ra le,
With a ri tol lol lol dil de de de de.

Her father had castles of mud,
Of which I wur fond of admiring,
They wur built in the time of the flood,
For to keep her ancestors dry in;
When he found I had Molly bespoke,
First he got fat and then he got thin again,
In the struggle his gizzard he broke,
And we had a corpse of McFinagan.

For convainiance, the corpse was put
Along with his friends in the barn shure,
While some came to it on foot,
While others came down from Dunagrinshore;
My wife she cried and she sobbed,
I chucked her out twice and she got in again.
I gave her a belt in the gob,
When I wur knocked down by McFinagan.

The bed and the corpse was upset,
The row it commenced in a minute, shure.
Divil a bit of a stick had I got
Till they broke all the legs of the furniture;
In faith, as the blood flew about,
Eyes were shoved out and shoved in ag'in,
I got a southwestern clout,
Which knocked me on top of poor Finagan.

How long I was dead I don't know,
But this I know, I wasn't livin', shure.
I awoke wid a pain in my toe,
For they were both tied wid a ribben, shure;
I opened my mouth for to spake,
The shate was roll'd up to my chin again,
"Och, Molly," says I, "I'm awake;"
"Oh," says she, "you'll be buried wid Finagan."

I opened my eyes for to see—
I strove to get up to knock her about—
I found that my two toes were tied
Like a spoon in a pot of thick stirabout,
But I soon got the use of my toes,
By a friend of the corpse, Larry Gilligan,
Who helped me get into my clothes,
For to spread a grass quilt over Finagan.

Och, my she-devil came home from the spree,
Full of whisky and ripe from the buryin', shure,
And she showed so much mercy to me,
As a hungry man shows a red herrin', shure;
One billy-go-fister I gave,
Which caused her to grunt and to grin again,
In six months I opened the grave,
And slapped her on the bones of Finagan.

It's now that I'm single again,
I'll spend my time rakin' and batterin',
I'll go to the fair wid the men,
And dance wid the girls for a-patterin';
They'll swear that I am stuck to a lee,
And as they say to catch him ag'in,
Bet they'll not come the cuckle o'er me,
For they might be related to Finagan.