McAlpines Fusiliers

'Twas in the year of 'thirty-nine

When the sky was full of lead

When Hitler was heading for Poland

And Paddy, for Holyhead.

Come all you pincher laddies

And you long-distance men

Don't ever work for McAlpine

For Wimpey, or John Laing

You'll stand behind a mixer

Until your skin is turned to tan

And they'll say, Good on you, Paddy

With your boat-fare in your hand.

Oh, the craic was good in Cricklewood

And they wouldn't leave the Crown

With glasses flying and Biddys crying

Sure Paddy was going to town.

Oh mother dear, I'm over here

And I'm never coming back

What keeps me here is a rake o' beer

The ladies and the craic.

As down the glen came McAlpines men with their shovels slung behind them

'Twas in the pub that they drank the sup and up in the spike you'll find them

They sweated blood and they washed down mud with pints and quarts of beer

And now we're on the road again with McAlpine's Fusiliers

I stripped to the skin with Darkie Flynn way down upon the Isle of Grain

With the horsed Face O'Toole, 'cos I knew the rule, no money if you stopped for rain.

McAlpine's God was a well filled hod, your shoulders cut to bits and seared,

And woe to he who looked for tea with McAlpine's Fusiliers

I remeber the day that Bear O'Shea fell into a concrete stairs.

What Horse Face said when he saw him dead it wasn't what the rich called prayers.

I'm a navvy short was the one retort that reached unto my ears

When the going's rough then you must be tough with McAlpine's Fusiliers

I've worked 'til the sweat nearly had me bet, with Russian, Czech and Pole.

On shuddering jams up the hydro dams or underneath the Thames in a hole.

I've grabbed it hard and I've got me cards and many a ganger's fist across me ears.

If you pride your life don't join by christ, with McAlpine's Fusiliers