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Come day, go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday;
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.
He sits on 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 me heart it was Sunday;
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
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 will see,
In the fanciest theater in town.
Come day, go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday;
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.
I'm sad to relate that old Seth Davy died,
In nineteen hundred and four;
The three wooden dolls in the dustbin were laid,
His songs will be heard nevermore.
Come day, go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday;
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.
On some stormy night when you're passing that way,
With the winds 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 me heart it was Sunday;
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.
Come day, go day,
Wish in me heart it was Sunday;
Drinking buttermilk through the week,
Whiskey on a Sunday.
