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