Up in Liverpool, at the turn of the century, there was this little negro chappie, who used to have this peculiar habit of sitting on a tea chest with a plank between his legs. Could be rather nasty. He used to have a doll which he used to sit on the end of this plank, and by thumping his fists on the plank, he used to make the doll dance. He used to sing at the same time. It's a rather nice song with a rather good chorus. I think the Irish have adopted it, and they call it Whiskey on a Sunday. The true title is Seth Davey, which was the chap's name. He sits on the corner of Bevington Bush, stride of an old packing case, and the dolls at the end of the plank go dancing as he croons with a smile on his face. Come day go day, wishing me a heart for Sunday, drinking buttermilk all the week, whiskey on a Sunday. His tired old hands drum the wooden beam, and the puppets dance to give a finer show than you ever could get at the pivvy of the new Brighton pier. Come day go day, wishing me a heart for Sunday, drinking buttermilk all the week, whiskey on a Sunday. In 1902 old Seth Davey died, and his song will be heard no more. Three dancing dolls in a jowl have been ended, and the plank went to mend the back door. Come day go day, wishing me a heart for Sunday, drinking buttermilk all the week, whiskey on a Sunday. On some stormy night down the old Scotty Row, when the wind's blowing up from the sea, you can still hear the voice of old Seth Davey as he croons to his dancing dolls three. Come day go day, wishing me a heart for Sunday, drinking buttermilk all the week, whiskey on a Sunday. Thank you.